


The Triskelion's Curse

by orphan_account



Category: Merlin (TV), Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies), Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl (2003)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Movie Fusion, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, M/M, Minor Body Horror, pirates of the caribbean - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-05
Updated: 2016-09-05
Packaged: 2018-08-13 06:33:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 30,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7966222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When druids kidnap Arthur, he is prepared to find himself held for ransom. However, these are no ordinary druids - they are cursed for their greed, and only a Dragonlord can cure them. Unaware of the danger, Merlin enlists the help of rogue druid Mordred Ceo to rescue Arthur and save Camelot. With only a stolen dragon and a possibly insane warlock as aid, can Merlin save Arthur before he himself falls prey to Alvarr and his band?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this was my second round of ACBB, and I think it's possible I enjoyed it even more than the first. I prematched with the amazing Dylogger, who created beautiful art that I could gush over all day. Seriously, I still have issues believing how pretty it is. Go give love [on tumblr](http://art-dy.tumblr.com/post/149996257765/acbb-illustrations-for-the-triskelions-curse-by), [livejournal](http://dylogger.livejournal.com/81613.html), or [on AO3](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7966303).
> 
> I'd also like to thank the mods for running this fest, my beta waywardhalos for pointing out all my plot holes, and the chatzy crew for their continued support.

 

Arthur stared out into the mist-shrouded forest as his carriage rattled along the road. Although he was already an accomplished rider for a boy of twelve, both he and his father were riding in a carriage for the long journey towards Camelot. Despite the castle being Uther’s seat, he and Arthur had spent the last several years in Cornwall as Uther and King Odin spearheaded their campaign against magic. Now, they were heading home, druid settlements almost entirely stamped out across Cornwall.

Leaning over the road, the trees loomed ominously over the convoy, dew dripping onto the knights and sliding cold fingers down their spines. Arthur began to hum to break the oppressive silence, a tune about a knight slaying a griffin that he’d heard one of the servants singing. Suddenly, he felt a hand landing heavily on his shoulder. Arthur started, but seeing that it was only Gaius, the court physician, he relaxed. The old healer had pulled up to the carriage while Arthur was not paying attention, and his horse was keeping pace by the window.

“Hush, Arthur,” Gaius instructed, placing a finger over his lips. “Druids run wild in these forests. It would be best not to risk their wrath now.”

“That’ll be all, Gaius,” Uther said archly, shooting the physician an icy glare.

“But with the recent attacks, sire, it’d be best not to call attention to ourselves,” protested Gaius.

“I said, that’ll be all.” Uther’s voice now carried a warning note. Pulling on his reins, Gaius maneuvered the horse a short distance away. Arthur turned to his father, who was sitting beside him.

“I think it’d be exciting to meet a druid,” he said, eyes wide. On Arthur’s other side, a young man scoffed, sitting stiffly in his saddle. Prince Tarald was King Odin’s son and heir, on the path to becoming a knight. As part of his training, the nineteen-year-old was leading the guard escorting Uther and Arthur back to Camelot.

“I think not, young prince,” he replied, raising a dark eyebrow. “Druids are dangerous, and will stop at nothing to kill us all. My father will ensure that every man with magic gets what he deserves - an extra bundle of wood at dawn.”

Puzzled, Arthur glanced at Gaius. “For burning them,” the old man whispered, fluttering his hands up and away to indicate flames. Horrified, Arthur looked back to Tarald, who merely continued smirking.

“Prince Tarald, you’re here for your training, not your opinions,” Uther growled. “Don’t you have orders to give?” He slapped Tarald’s horse on the rear, sending it galloping away.

“But Prince Tarald was just trying to help,” protested Arthur, earning him a glare from his father. “I like him.”

“A prince’s duty is to be a good leader, not to be _liked_ ,” countered Uther, pronouncing the final word as if it left a foul taste in his mouth. The discussion seemingly over, Arthur pouted and resumed his staring out the window once more. As forest began to give way to fields, he noticed a scrap of red fabric fluttering in the wind. Leaning out the window, he looked up to where the cloth had came from, finding a small lump of rags huddled by the road. The carriage drew closer, and Arthur began to make out the shape of a person.

“Look, there’s a boy!” he cried. “A boy, on the side of the road!” As the convoy ground to a halt, Gaius and Tarald sprang into action. The old healer lifted the boy into a half-sitting position, dabbing at the blood on his face.

“He’s still breathing,” proclaimed Gaius, with palpable relief. Arthur watched the boy intensely. He was small and skinny, dressed in a commoner’s rags, but he appeared to be Arthur’s age. Before he could get closer, a general cry went up. He peeked out the window, heart in his mouth.

The convoy had arrived in the ruins of a village, thatched houses and wooden barnes ablaze. Aside from the crackling of wood, not a single noise could be heard. Instinctively, Arthur knew that nobody could have survived.

Gaius stood up, placing a hand over his mouth. “By the heavens…” he breathed, in shock from the utter destruction and carnage that lay before them.

“What happened?” Uther asked, stepping out of the carriage to survey the inferno.

“Could’ve been an overturned lantern,” Tarald replied, although his nervousness implied he thought otherwise. “These small villages have no stone buildings, it would’ve spread quickly.”

“No, it wasn’t,” Gaius interjected. “If nobody else will say it, I will: it was a dragon.”

A murmur spread through the assembled crowd. Although dragons were growing ever rarer under Uther’s assault, they could be commanded by a druid to set anything in their path ablaze.

“There’s no proof of that,” scoffed Uther. “Probably an accident.” He gestured for Arthur to stay back, issuing orders to the knights in a low tone.

“Find Sir Leon, direct the knights to search for survivors and anything useful left,” instructed Tarald, knights scurrying left and right like steel-plated insects to follow his orders. “This isn’t a known druid area - assist where you can.”

Arthur walked over to where Gaius and the rescued boy were, eyes wide with curiosity. As he watched, the old healer gently picked up the boy and placed him in the cart where his potions were stored. Uther drew up behind Arthur, placing a hand on his shoulder.

Uther’s eyes softened slightly. “We’ll take him to Camelot; there’s nothing left for him here,” he said. “He’ll become a servant. It’ll be a better life for him, and a good experience for you. Take care of him.”

Arthur nodded, looking Gaius. The old man had walked off into the forest, looking for herbs, and Arthur was left alone with the boy. He reached out to brush a strand of hair away from his face, so Gaius could bandage his wound. With a gasp, the boy sat upright, eyes wide and panicked. Arthur flinched, but did his best to compose himself.

“It’s alright,” he said in what he hoped was a comforting tone. “My name is Pri- I’m Arthur.”

“M-Merlin Emrys,” the boy stuttered, already sagging back onto the wooden cart, eyes unfocused.

“I’ll protect you, Merlin,” Arthur said, the words coming from his mouth before he could prevent them. It was more than a sense of duty that motivated him - Arthur knew that come hell or high water, he would do whatever he could to save his newfound friend. Despite his recent trauma, the boy seemed calmed, and he slipped back into unconsciousness once more. Noting a chain around Merlin’s neck, Arthur pulled on it, revealing a necklace. The chunk of metal it held was randomly shaped, like a fragment of something, but the three spirals etched into it were unmistakable.

“Druids!” Arthur exclaimed to himself, eyes wide. Behind him, Tarald watched the pair intently.

“Has he said anything?” the older boy asked, having finished issuing orders. Arthur gasped, concealing the necklace behind his back.

“His name’s Merlin Emrys, that’s all I found out,” he replied, hoping his lie wasn’t too obvious.

Tarald nodded. “Very well. He’ll stay with Gaius.”

Arthur began to walk back to the carriage, thumb running over the edges of the necklace idly. To his knowledge there weren’t any druids left in this part of Essetir, but he couldn’t help but wonder if Merlin knew anything about them.

As he stared into the fog, Arthur saw a flash of wings, iridescent green and scaled as they sped off into the mist. Arthur gasped, turning to see if anybody had noticed, but not a single person had. He tried to run after it, but his legs felt like he was wearing his father’s armor. Opening his mouth, Arthur tried to shout, but no noise came out. He couldn’t move, speak, or even breathe.


	2. Mordred Arrives in Camelot

With a flinch, Arthur awoke, sitting bolt upright in bed. He passed a hand over his face, breathing out hard. It was rare for him to have such a nightmarish dream - normally it was Morgana who was inflicted with sleepless nights. He could hear her scream sometimes, frantic shrieks that echoed through the castle and set everybody’s hair on end. Throwing off the bedsheets, Arthur went through his drawers, pulling up a false bottom. Nobody believed that he’d be clever enough to make one on his own, so Arthur was reasonably confident that it had yet to be found. He breathed a sigh of relief as he pulled a necklace out from the hidden box, running his fingers over the metal shard from his dreams. He slipped it over his head, absentmindedly fingering the chain.

Suddenly a knock sounded on the door. “Sire? May I enter?” Arthur started, but breathed a sigh of relief as he heard the voice. It was George, one of the royal servants.

“Yes,” he called, making sure the shard was hidden by his nightshirt. “Yes!” George opened the door and entered, two other servants carrying a box behind him. It was evidently very heavy, and Arthur’s curiosity was piqued. He opened the chest, revealing a new set of armor. It was magnificent, polished steel engraved with dragons and inlaid with gold. He ran his fingers over the metal reverently.

“It’s beautiful,” he whispered. The moment was summarily destroyed by a series of crashes down the hallway, followed by the door bursting open.

“Rise and shine, sire!” cried Merlin as he stumbled through the door, a torch sconce conspicuously hanging out his back pocket. 

“Did you break a _ torch sconce _ , Merlin?” asked Arthur incredulously. Merlin assumed his best expression of innocence, choosing instead to tear open the curtains and momentarily blind Arthur.

“How can you be so cheery in the morning?” Arthur groaned, holding a hand over his eyes.

“Because it’s a beautiful day!”

Indeed, the sun was shining, and not a cloud was in sight through the window. Arthur took a deep breath as Merlin opened the window, a slight summer breeze drifting into the room.

“Your father hoped you would wear this armor for the ceremony today,” George droned, gesturing to the chest. Merlin moved to drag it behind the dressing screen, the scrape of wood on stone making Arthur wince.

“Ceremony?” he asked, having not paid attention to anything his father had said recently.

“Princess Morgana’s engagement,” George reminded him.

Arthur sighed. He’d almost forgotten that Morgana’s engagement to Prince Tarald was being celebrated today. Despite his occasional arrogance and stiffness, Arthur knew that Tarald would treat Morgana well, and the two did seem to get along. He was a knight, after all, and would treat a princess with proper respect.

“She’ll be happy in Cornwall,” he observed, as George bowed and left him alone with Merlin to get dressed. Arthur pulled on his padded shirt, turning away so Merlin could not see the necklace. With a grunt, Merlin lifted up the chestplate and began dressing his master, pulling the straps tight. Arthur exhaled heavily as the weight pressed on his shoulders.

“It’s heavy,” he complained, rotating a shoulder to ease out the morning’s stiffness.

“It’s ceremonial armor, sire,” responded Merlin, cinching the buckles along the side. “You don’t have to fight in it, just stand there and look fancy.”

Then, Arthur remembered why he had been so startled by George’s entrance. “I dreamed about the day we met,” he said, turning to face Merlin. “Do you remember?” Unconsciously, his hand went to the chain around his neck.

“Don’t think I could forget it, sire,” replied Merlin with raised eyebrows, strapping on Arthur’s greaves.

“Look, Merlin,” Arthur huffed, extending a hand for Merlin to buckle on his gauntlets, “I know you’re a servant, but we’ve known each other since we were children - we were playmates, for heaven’s sake. How many times have I said that you can call me Arthur?”

Merlin looked down at his feet. “More than I can count, sire,” he said. “And as always, you must say it again.” His work finished, he stepped back to examine Arthur.

“You look wonderful,” Merlin said softly. “I’m sure every lady at court will be swooning over you.” Arthur detected a hint of envy in his words, but attributed it to the chance to go to court. Any other feelings he might have about Merlin’s compliment were quickly brushed away, but not before a slight blush flared up his cheeks. 

“Right, well,” Arthur said, clearing his throat. “You know your chores for the day, I’ll see you when I get back. Good day, Merlin.” So saying, he exited his chambers, red cloak billowing behind him rather impressively. Merlin stared after him, a faint smile playing about his lips.

“Good day, Arthur,” he said, just loud enough for Arthur to hear. He shot his manservant a smile as he strode down the hallway, while George glared at Merlin for his insubordination. But Merlin didn’t care; he was positively elated. Arthur’s smile was better reward than anything Uther could give him.

 

~M~

 

On the road to Camelot, a hooded figure was dragging a particularly recalcitrant mule behind him. Or rather, he was attempting to, and the mule was staying put. The man pushed, pulled, coaxed, and threatened, but the mule refused to move. With a final curse, the mysterious figure dropped the lead in the dust and stomped off towards Camelot. Unperturbed by its master’s display of exasperation, the mule began to follow him, stopping whenever the man turned around to look. Eventually, they made it to the gates, only to be halted by a man dressed in official-looking robes.

“A silver coin to enter the city of Camelot,” he proclaimed, a greasy smile on his face. “King’s tax.” The figure said nothing, reaching into a pocket and pulling out a small rock. The man’s brow furrowed as the pebble was dropped into his hand, and he opened his mouth to protest.

“ _ Belíefe bizant _ ,” the hooded man whispered, and from within the shadowed depths of his cowl came a flash of golden eyes. The tax collector’s scowl immediately turned into a sickeningly obsequious grin.

“Camelot thanks you for your generosity, good sire,” he said, stepping to the side to give entry. So focused was he on the golden coin he perceived to be in his hands that he did not notice his coin purse silently unhooking itself from his belt and floating away. The hooded man strode past, a faint smile on his lips. Tying his mule to a post, he slipped into the mass of people, his nondescript cloak letting him blend seamlessly into the crowd.

 

~M~

 

The announcement of Morgana’s engagement was held on the battlements of Camelot, banners in the colors of Cornwall and Camelot streaming from the ramparts as peasants and nobles alike cheered. The stone arches amplified the ceremony beautifully, Morgana and Tarald both looked stunning, and everything proceeded without a hitch. But as the sun beat down, Arthur could feel his new armor growing hotter by the minute, until he was fairly certain he would be roasted alive inside it. He pulled ineffectively at the buckles, grimacing when they did not loosen.

After what felt like an eternity, the ceremony ended, but before Arthur could run back to his chambers and have Merlin shuck him out of his blasted armor, Tarald gestured for him to come over. Arthur glanced pleadingly at Morgana, but she shooed him away, a playful smirk on her face. He began to escort Tarald along the ramparts, sighing internally, but. Despite being clad in armor as well, Tarald didn’t even seem to be sweating.

They chitchatted idly as they walked, discussing the state of their kingdoms and other matters until Arthur was bored to the point of tears. Eventually, Tarald paused at the very edge of the ramparts, looking over the side. Below them lay two sleeping dragons, one pearl-white and the other a dull red, chained with links of iron each the size of a child. Inserted through their noses were two large rings, designed to be joined to oversize reins so that a knight could control them like a horse. Between the dragons was a large cage, shaped like a half dome. It contained three wyverns that flapped around restlessly, bouncing off the bars and shrieking.

“Magnificent,” Tarald breathed, eyes wide with awe and no small amount of envy. “The last dragons in Camelot.”

Arthur nodded slightly, his ears buzzing. He could barely keep upright, let alone focus on what Tarald was saying. If only he could get out of the damned heat…

Far below Arthur and Tarald, the mysterious hooded man approached the white dragon, only to be stopped by two guards, one tall and muscular, the other with long hair and a scruffy beard.

“Dragons are off limits to civilians,” Sir Gwaine said lazily, crunching an apple. Although his exterior gave the impression of incompetence, the wickedly sharp sword at his side spoke of his expertise. Beside him, Sir Percival crossed his arms, looking extremely intimidating. Veteran knights had fled in terror from his scowl, but the hooded man was undaunted. He raised pale hands to lift his cowl, revealing a man with dark brown curls and piercing blue eyes.

“Sorry, I just wanted to look,” he said, eyebrows quirking upwards in contrition. Upon hearing the trumpets from Camelot, he glanced over, then back to the guards. “But why are two knights guarding a beast that can easily incinerate a man, instead of protecting the happy couple?”

“Somebody needs to make sure she’s not attacked,” said Percival, jerking his head in the direction of the white dragon.

“Yes, but I’d think that saboteurs would be after that one,” replied the man, pointing at the red dragon nearby. Indeed, it was far larger than its white counterpart, and held a menacing air even when asleep and muzzled.

“Leomaris is stronger, of course,” conceded Gwaine. “But Aithusa’s the fastest dragon - and the last.”

The man seemed to consider Gwaine’s boast. “I’ve heard there’s still another dragon, older and more powerful than any other,” he mused. “Kilgharrah.”

Percival scoffed. “Kilgharrah’s not real.”

“Yes he is, I’ve seen him,” cut in Gwaine.

“No you haven’t,” Percival replied, rolling his eyes. “You were probably drunk.”

“Was not!”

Sighing, Percival fully turned to look at his companion. “Even if Kilgharrah was real, which he’s not, he hasn’t been seen in Camelot for over ten years. There’s no way you could’ve seen him, we would’ve only been squires then.”

Gwaine’s cocky smile faltered. “No. But I did see a green dragon.” The third man glanced between the two bickering knights, before slowly slipping past them towards Aithusa. Both were so engaged in their argument, neither knight noticed.

“Oh, and because there could only ever be one green dragon, it has to be Kilgharrah that you saw, even though he doesn’t exist?” retorted Percival, eyebrows raised.

Gwaine, mind thoroughly boggled, nodded and hoped Percival was agreeing with him. “No.”

“Like I said, Aithusa’s the last dragon,” Percival said triumphantly, turning back to where the hooded man had been standing, only to find an empty space. The two knights whirled around to see him seated by the white dragon, idly caressing a wing.

“Get away from her!” Percival cried, pressing his sword point to the small of the man’s back. He stood up slowly, hands in the air, but did not seem to be worried.

“What’s your name?” growled Gwaine, infinitely more menacing with a broadsword in his hands.

“Bloggs,” came the easy reply. “Joseph Bloggs.”

Gwaine snorted. “And why are you in Camelot, ‘Mister Bloggs’?” he sneered, sword still leveled at the stranger.

“And no lies,” added Percival darkly.

The man seemed to consider the threat. “Alright, I confess,” he said, turning around. “I’m a druid. I’m here to free one of these dragons, fly off on its back, and wreak havoc on all those who would ban magic.” He smiled slightly, as though he was detailing a plan for a picnic in the forest.

“I said no lies!” shouted Percival, bringing his sword closer.

“I think he’s telling the truth,” Gwaine murmured in amazement.

“Would somebody really confess to being a druid at swordpoint? In Camelot?” Percival countered, rather sensibly. Gwaine looked from the self-confessed druid, back to Percival, and back again, brow furrowed.

 

~M~

 

Tarald smiled at Arthur, oblivious to the drama below. “They’re very impressive. Fine dragons for the fine Pendragons.” Arthur grinned weakly, black spots beginning to swim in front of his eyes.

“I’m glad that Morgana is such a fine woman,” Tarald continued. “And although our fathers have agreed to this marriage, I’d still like to ask your blessing. You two are as close as any true brother and sister, and it wouldn’t feel right otherwise.” He turned to look off the battlements.

Arthur gulped. The world was reeling around him in a decidedly unpleasant manner, and he could barely breathe. 

“My head,” he whispered, lifting a gauntlet in hopes of shielding his eyes from the blinding sun.

“I’ve never had a head for heights myself,” Tarald admitted, unaware of Arthur’s distress. With a gasp, Arthur plummeted off the ramparts, bouncing off a cage bar and into the wyverns’ den, fully unconscious. Tarald turned around, only to find Arthur absent. His brow furrowed. “Arthur?”

Peeking over the wall, he saw a flash of red in the wyverns’ cage. “Arthur!” he cried, the guards running over. Tarald moved to push past them, only for Sir Leon to stop him.

“You can’t go in there, sire!” he exclaimed, eyes wide. “They’ll rip you to shreds!” True to Leon’s word, the grass under the cage was littered with the skulls of the wyverns’ unfortunate meals, some suspiciously human shaped.

At the clang of Arthur’s fall, Gwaine, Percival, and their captive turned to find the source of the commotion. Although initially startled, the wyverns began to creep towards Arthur’s prone figure, visibly intent on mauling him.

“Will you be saving him?” The man asked, pointing at Arthur.

“I’d be useless without plate armor,” Gwaine said bleakly. Percival nodded in agreement. They both only wore a coat of maille, which the wyverns’ needle-like teeth could easily pierce. ‘Joseph’ sighed, removing his cloak and a travelling bag.

“Do not lose these,” he warned, before slipping through a gap in the bars. Brandishing a dagger, he slashed at the wyverns surrounding Arthur, sending them screeching and flapping back. He moved to drag Arthur to the way he entered, but the prince’s ornate armor kept him from fitting through the gap. With a curse, the man began sawing through straps and buckles, gaze flitting between his work and the wyverns. Sensing his vulnerability, they crept closer and closer, still wary of his weapon. Jostled by the fall, Arthur’s necklace swung out of his shirt, the metal shard beginning to glow golden. However, in his haste, his savior did not notice.

With a clatter, Arthur’s breastplate and fauld came apart, falling to the grassy floor of the cage. Shoving Arthur through the gap in the bars, the man tumbled out, just as a wyvern’s claw swiped at his shirt. Tarald, having dashed down the rampart stairs, drew his sword and ran towards Arthur.

The newly saved prince groaned, beginning to regain consciousness. His rescuer knelt over him, running a cursory hand over his wounds. When he spotted the necklace, his eyes narrowed.

“Where did you get this?” He asked, turning the shard over in his hands. Before Arthur could reply, Tarald’s sword was at ‘Joseph’s’ throat.

“On your feet,” he said, voice deadly calm. The man slowly stood up as Uther and the rest of the knights arrived.

“Are you alright?” Uther asked, uncharacteristic concern in his voice as he guided Arthur to his feet.

“Yes, I think so,” replied Arthur, wincing as he leaned on his father. “Nothing serious.”

“Good,” said Uther, hand on his son’s back. “Kill him,” he ordered offhandedly, jerking his head in the direction of Tarald’s captive.

“Do you really intend to kill the man who saved my life, Tarald?” asked Arthur, pulling away from his father. The older prince hesitated a moment before sheathing his sword.

“You have my most sincere thanks,” the prince said, extending a hand towards the hooded man. He cautiously moved forward to take it, but as he did, Tarald pulled him close and ripped the laces on his tunic apart. With his collarbone exposed, a tattoo of three joined spirals could be seen on the pale skin.

“Not from around here, are we,  _ druid _ ?” he smirked. The man winced slightly, his secret revealed.

“Burn him at the stake!” came Uther’s command.

“Archers at the ready,” Tarald added, much calmer. “Sir Leon, if you’d be so good to fetch the iron shackles.” Leon bowed and hurried away. Noticing the edge of another tattoo, Tarald pushed the shirt further to the side. It was a crow in flight, feathers trailing across the man’s shoulder and down onto his arm.

“Well, well,” he mused, “you must be Mordred Céo.”

“Dragonlord Mordred Céo,” the druid corrected, uncaring about the breach in decorum he had just made.

“Dragonlord?” asked Tarald, making a show of looking around. “I don’t see any dragons, except for the ones Camelot owns.”

“He said he’d come to steal one,” butted in Gwaine. “These are his, sire.” He presented the cloak and bag to the elder prince. Tarald rummaged through it, pulling out a small crossbow, designed to be wielded with a single hand.

“No extra bolts,” he noted. “No replacement strings, either.” He pulled out a black stone, holding it next to his sword. It immediately dropped to the floor.

“A lodestone that doesn’t work…” he continued. Mordred flashed him a sardonic grin.

“You are without doubt the worst Dragonlord I’ve ever heard of,” Uther noted.

“But you have heard of me,” Mordred returned. Tarald quirked an eyebrow as Uther fumed, moving to the side to allow Leon past. Still, Mordred made no move to escape as his hands were shackled.

“Tarald, don’t,” Arthur pleaded, stepping towards Mordred. “Druid or not, he saved my life.” Tarald said nothing, observing Leon as he locked the manacles.

“A good deed is not enough to save a druid from the stake,” Uther sneered.

Mordred shrugged. “Though apparently it is enough to condemn me to it.” Leon stepped back, the druid safely manacled. In a flash, Mordred wrapped his chains around Arthur’s neck, pulling him close. Weakened from his fall, Arthur was powerless to resist.

“Don’t shoot!” cried Uther, hand in the air. Trapped in front of the druid, Arthur had become a human shield, arrows from a longbow just as likely to hit him as his captor.

“I’d like those back, sire,” Mordred said, nodding at the bag and cloak. Tarald hesitated, clearly unwilling to hand a druid any sort of weapon. In response, Mordred tightened his grasp, causing Arthur to gasp as the manacles pressed against his throat. Grudgingly, the older prince walked over and held out the belongings.

“Now, Arthur-”

“It’s  _ Prince _ Arthur,” the prince growled, pulling against his captor.

“ _ Prince _ Arthur,” Mordred continued mockingly. “If you’d be so kind…” Arthur twisted around, hanging the bag around Mordred’s neck and fastening the cloak.

“You’re scum,” Arthur whispered through gritted teeth, hoping the cloak’s pin stabbed Mordred as he fastened it.

Mordred was unperturbed. “A life for a life,” he said, “that is the way of the world. Balance has been restored.” With Arthur finished, Mordred spun him around once more, still holding him hostage.

“My lords,” he proclaimed, “this is not the last you have seen of Mordred Céo!” So saying, he lifted his wrists into the air, freeing Arthur and shoving him forward into the group of knights. Flipping his hood up, Mordred made a mad dash for the gates, the knights in hot pursuit. Arrows rained down around him, one piercing his shoulder, but he quickly yanked it out with a grimace. Pushing through the crowd, Mordred ducked and weaved, slipping into a dark alleyway. When the knights pursued, they found it empty, the druid having disappeared into the throng of people.

“We lost him,” Sir Leon panted, bowing as Tarald and Uther arrived.

“He can’t use his magic with the manacles still on,” observed Tarald. “He can’t have gotten far; spread through the lower town.”

“Our druid has a dawn appointment at the stake,” Uther added. “Do not let him miss it.” Bowing once more, Leon and the other knights resumed their search, but Mordred was nowhere to be found.


	3. Dragon Attack

It had been relatively easy to slip into the castle, Mordred reflected as he snuck through the servant’s quarters. He’d grabbed a basket of laundry as he entered, and with it in his hands, nobody looked twice at him. Now, to find a blacksmith so he could free himself…

Mordred paused, sensing a magical presence nearby. He’d felt it the moment he entered Camelot, a magical being of very great power, but its aura had suddenly fluctuated, as though somebody was attempting to disguise themselves.

 _Very interesting_ , he thought to himself, finally finding the smithy. Inside, a young woman was hard at work at the forge, chestnut-colored skin glistening with sweat. Seeing Mordred, her mouth opened in surprise, but he grabbed her by the hair and bashed her head against the wall before she could cry out. She crumpled to the ground, unconscious. Mordred tensed, but it seemed nobody had heard the scuffle, and he grabbed a nearby hammer and began working at the manacles. It was hard work, but eventually, one of the cuffs flattened enough for Mordred to slip his wrist out. He sighed in relief as his magic blossomed inside his chest once more. It wasn’t fully back yet, the other cuff still restraining it, but all the same, Mordred was greatly relieved. He was just about to begin working on the other links when he heard a voice, and slipped into the shadows.

“Gwen!” Merlin called, entering the forge carrying a tray. “I brought you some dinner, Audrey said-” he stopped dead in the doorway, not seeing his friend. “Gwen?” It was then that he noticed the hammer lying discarded on the floor. He frowned, glancing around the forge. Gwen always cleaned up after herself. Merlin stepped forward, brow furrowed.

“Well, well, well,” Mordred’s voice whispered in his head. “What do we have here? A warlock, in Camelot?” Mordred stepped forward out of the shadows, clutching his arm where a flower of blood still blossomed.

“You’re the one they’re hunting,” Merlin gasped out loud. “The druid.” Mordred stared at him curiously.

“You look familiar,” he mused. “Where have I seen you?”

“At the side of the prince, protecting him from people like you!” Merlin spat, blocking the doorway.

Mordred rolled his eyes. “Yes, very noble, now let me pass.” He moved forward, but with a word, Merlin brought up a golden barrier.

“You threatened Arthur,” he said, voice low and murderous.

Mordred snorted. “Hardly,” he responded, letting his magic probe the barrier in front of him. To his surprise, it was well constructed, solid against his questing - except for one spot. He thrust his hand forward, magic flowing out and through the gap. “ _Astrice_!” he yelled, blowing Merlin backwards. He rushed towards the exit, but Merlin blocked his path with a well-timed fireball. Back and forth they went, raising shields and throwing spells, Merlin matching Mordred with each strike. Mordred could feel the raw power in each spell Merlin sent his way, but his own years of experience kept his opponent from gaining the upper hand. The two druids circled the forge in their battle, fires raising and lowering as sparks of gold flew from their hands.

“You know what you’re doing, I’ll give you that,” Mordred panted as he crouched behind a shield of his own making. Merlin sent a set of tongs flying towards him, only for them to bounce off the magical construct.

“I should,” Merlin retorted, becoming short of breath himself. “I practice whenever I can!”

“You need to find a pretty serving wench to bed,” observed Mordred. “Or maybe there’s somebody else you’re looking to impress…”

Merlin flinched in anger, renewing his attack. Mordred let the shield drop, choosing to retaliate instead. The magical battle continued to rage until Mordred grabbed the bellows, blowing sparks in Merlin’s face. He cried out, raising his hands to protect his eyes and dropping his attack. Taking advantage of his adversary’s distraction, Mordred reached into his pack and pulled out his crossbow, aiming it directly at Merlin’s chest.

“This bolt is forged in dragon’s breath,” he said, his voice deadly low. Behind him, Gwen began to stir, but Mordred did not notice. “It will break through any spell you can cast and pierce your heart.” Yet Merlin did not move from his place between Mordred and the door.

“Move!” Mordred shouted, pulling the string back. There was an anguished tone to his voice, and genuine regret in his eyes.

“No,” Merlin said resolutely. “I can’t just step aside and let you pass.”

“This bolt isn’t meant for you,” Mordred hissed. “But I will use it nonetheless.” Merlin’s brow furrowed in confusion—this honesty wasn’t the action of an ordinary druid. For a long second, they remained still with eyes locked, until Gwen crept close enough to bring a chestplate crashing down onto Mordred’s head. He crumpled to the ground, landing facedown on the floor. Gwen nodded at Merlin, breathing hard.

“You alright?” She asked, eyes full of concern. Merlin nodded, dumbstruck at Gwen’s sudden ruthlessness. As the two servants stared, the door burst open and knights flooded the forge, followed by Uther and Tarald. They surrounded Mordred’s unconscious figure, swords pointed at his back.

“Excellent work, Guinevere,” the king remarked, dismissing Merlin’s various injuries. “I’ll see to it that you’re rewarded.” Gwen curtsied, struggling to hide a laugh as Merlin rolled his eyes. Leon and Lancelot moved forward and grabbed Mordred’s arms, dragging his unconscious body away to the dungeons.

 

~M~

 

That evening, a thick fog descended upon Camelot, blanketing the lower town in an impenetrable mist. Shivering, Gwen shut the window and stoked the fire in Arthur’s chambers. Arthur was lying in his bed, bruises and cuts neatly bandaged. Luckily, he hadn’t broken any bones, but he was still sore and exhausted. He sighed happily as the flickering fire warmed his room.

“Thank you, Gwen,” he said. “Normally I’d have Merlin do this, but-”

“Don’t worry about it, sire,” Gwen fussed, poking at the embers. “Poor Merlin was exhausted from the stress of today, seeing you almost killed and all. He really cares for you,” she said, casting a glance at the prince. Arthur’s heart thudded painfully in his chest at the unexpected hope Gwen’s words brought. He crushed the thought, hoping that his reaction wasn’t noticeable.

“That’ll be all now, Gwen,” he said crisply, turning his face away from the fire. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, sire.” Gwen curtsied as she got up, quietly shutting the door behind her. Arthur leaned back into his pillow, staring at the fire as its rhythmic flickering soothed his troubled thoughts. However, as he watched, the flames guttered, and with a gust of wind, were extinguished altogether.

In the servant’s quarters he shared with George, Merlin was hard at work polishing Arthur’s armor, squinting in the candlelight. A noise outside caused him to startle, head jerking up. He peeked out the window, to see the street entirely deserted, except for a single cat that had caused the noise. Almost without realizing it, Merlin let his magic surge through his core and into his fingertips, ready to fight.

Down in the dungeon, a few prisoners were trying to coax the guards into letting them out, giving them extra food, or simply playing a round of cards. However, their captors were unmoved, steadfastly ignoring them in favor of their game. Mordred sat isolated in a second cell, arms crossed.

“They’re never going to listen to you,” he said idly, leaning his head against the cell wall.

“Some of us aren’t consigned to death yet, druid,” somebody in the adjacent cell spat. Mordred shrugged, closing his eyes. _No sense staying up all night fretting_ , he thought, starting to drift off as half-formed escape plans flitted through his head like wisps of smoke.

On the castle ramparts stood Tarald and Uther, looking into the square. Below them was the stake, stacks of wood piled at its base in preparation for Mordred’s execution.

“I understand you asked Arthur for his blessing?” Uther asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Morgana may be your ward, sire,” Tarald replied, “But she and Arthur are as close as any true brother and sister I have seen.” Uther nodded in agreement, looking off into the distance.

“Hopefully the wood doesn’t get dampened by this mist,” he observed. Noticing a flash of golden light in the distance, he squinted slightly. “What was that?” Another speck of light appeared in the sky, rapidly resolving itself into a fireball approaching the castle.

“Dragon!” Tarald cried, abandoning decorum and shoving Uther to the ground. The fiery projectile struck the wall beneath them, sending a shudder through the castle. Rubble collapsed around them, wooden posts catching on fire before their eyes. The inferno blocked the stairs down the ramparts, forcing them to remain on the castle wall as Camelot was attacked.

 

~M~

 

Mordred sat upright at the collision, scrambling onto the small table in his cell as he struggled to see out the window. The other prisoners mimicked his gesture, eyes wide. Through the bars, Mordred could see a dark shape blocking the moonlight, winged silhouette raining fire down on the castle. He could recognize the dragon’s shape and size anywhere.

“It’s Kilgharrah,” he whispered, a note of disbelief in his voice. 

One of the men in the adjacent cell shuddered. “I’ve heard stories about him,” he whispered. “He’s been flying with druids for nearly ten years...never leaves a soul alive.” Mordred merely grunted in response, still intent on watching the castle’s magical opponent.

Fire engulfed the lower town, sending people running out of their houses and screaming. The strong wooden gates blasted inwards, and through them streamed a torrent of druids, destroying buildings and running rampant through the town. Some began carrying off sacks of grain and other supplies, beating off desperate commoners struggling to hold onto their wares.

Merlin watched the explosions grimly, pulling his neckerchief over his face and a cloak over his head. He stuck a sword in his belt, just for good measure, and stormed out the door. It was too late for the lower town, but if he acted fast, he might be able to hold off the druids from entering the castle.

Running into the main square, Merlin raised a shield just in time as the stake exploded, sending splinters of wood in all directions. He sent a blast of magic after the druid responsible, sending him flying. The druid hit the stone wall with a nasty crack, his head lying at a bizarre angle as his distinctive purple cape pooled around him. Bile rose in Merlin’s mouth, and he struggled not to be sick. He hadn’t intended to kill the druid, and while it wasn’t the first time he had taken a life, it still made Merlin feel ill. He continued to hold the square, praying the knights would arrive soon.

When the first explosion rocked the castle, Arthur had jumped out of bed, reaching instinctively for his armor. However, he was still too weak to put it on, and cursing the fact that he’d left his sword in the armory, made his way down the stairs to the main hall. With Uther and Tarald trapped up on the ramparts, it was left to him to give the orders.

“Protect as many civilians as you can,” he ordered. “Get the women and children into the castle!” The knights still present nodded, charging into the fray. However, both they and Arthur knew the odds were not in their favor. As he watched, Arthur ran towards the servant’s quarters, determined to protect as many people as he could. He nearly barreled into Gwen, who was armed to the teeth with various daggers and smithing tools.

“They’re coming for you and Morgana,” she gasped. “The ransom you’re worth-”

“Stay with her, Gwen,” Arthur cut her off, placing a hand on her shoulder. “I need to find Merlin.” Gwen nodded, eyes still wide with fear, but took the stairs two at a time towards Morgana’s room. Arthur grinned slightly as he watched her go. If any druid thought they would find Morgana and Gwen easy prey, they deserved the thrashing they would most certainly get. He dashed into the room Merlin and George shared, finding only the stodgy elder servant.

“Where’s Merlin?” Arthur panted, slamming the door shut. George shook his head mutely, his normally implacable demeanor completely ruffled. Somebody banged on the door, and George moved to open it.

“No, don’t!” cried Arthur, but a blast of magic sent George flying through the air, a hole blown cleanly through his chest. Two druids stood in the doorway, one scarred and ginger, the other older with a mop of grey-blond curls. The scarred one lowered his hand in surprise, not expecting to see more than one person in the room. Arthur shoved his way past them before they could react, sprinting up the stairs and towards the armory. If only he had a weapon, then he could put up a fight.

With explosions hot on his heels, Arthur ran for his life, cheeks burning at the taunting jeers of his attackers. No matter how he twisted and turned through the castle’s labyrinthine halls, they always seemed to find him, until Arthur ducked through a servant’s passageway and gave them the slip. Finally reaching the armory, Arthur grabbed a sword and stood his ground, prepared to fight with all his worth. However, the sword grew hot in his hands, and he dropped it with a gasp. He looked around, seeking another weapon, but every sword, axe, and mace was now glowing red-hot. Gritting his teeth, Arthur dragged a weapons rack across the door, hoping to buy a few minutes’ time.

“We know you’re in there,” taunted a voice outside. “Come out, and we won’t hurt you.” Arthur didn’t believe it for a second, pressing up against the door.

“You’ve got something of ours,” continued the voice. “We can feel it; it calls to us.” Arthur’s eyes widened. The fragment! Instinctively, his fingers went to the chain around his neck. The door began to shake under repeated blasts, until a final explosion threw Arthur to the ground and split the wood open. As the smoke cleared, the two druids stepped into the room, hands raised and prepared to strike Arthur down.

“I’m unarmed!” Arthur blurted, raising his own hands in the air defensively. It pained him to beg for mercy in such a manner, but his survival was more important for the kingdom than a noble death. “Chivalry dictates that if a man is unarmed and asks for mercy, he must be shown it.” The scarred man rolled his eyes and opened his mouth, but his companion stopped him from completing the spell.

“Alvarr will want to see him, Edwin,” he warned, eyes flitting between Arthur and the scarred druid. “And he’ll come quietly.” He cast a questioning glance in Arthur’s direction, who nodded reluctantly. Edwin lowered his hands, but disgust was still plain on his face.

“Chivalry will be upheld,” he spat, roughly pulling Arthur to his feet. He placed Arthur’s hands behind his back, and muttered, “ _ásæle_ ”. As his eyes flashed gold, Arthur felt a weight on his wrists, as though manacles were placed on them. He pulled slightly, but found the invisible shackles solid. Edwin grabbed Arthur’s arm and began dragging him along briskly as they exited the castle.

 

~M~

 

Outside, Merlin retreated into the shadows as knights entered the square, beating back the druids in an impressive display of force. From his vantage point, he could see two druids sneaking out, Arthur stumbling between them.

“Arthur!” he cried, starting to run toward, only for his path to be blocked. It was the druid in the purple cloak _—_ the very same that Merlin had killed earlier. Merlin stopped dead in confusion, brow furrowed. Another druid took the opportunity to catapult him into a wall, sending Merlin crumpling to the ground, unconscious.

The dragon’s onslaught continued, blasting a hole through the dungeon level. Mordred and the other prisoners threw themselves against the dungeon doors, hoping to avoid the falling rubble. A large hole now replaced the back wall of the dungeon _—_ but not on Mordred’s side. He tore at the stones desperately, but it was no use _—_ they were mortared in place, and he was still manacled. Hurtling over debris and bodies alike, the criminals bolted from the prison, guards powerless to stop them.

“Sorry, mate,” muttered one of the prisoners, pausing briefly to throw a sympathetic glance Mordred’s way. “Every man for himself ‘n all.” Mordred could only watch helplessly, smoldering with anger, as escape occurred only inches from his nose. The moonlight shone on his face, making it seem even more pale.

Exhaling hard, he reached into his core, letting his magic surge through him. It hummed underneath his skin, battling against the cold iron of his shackles. With everything he had, Mordred slammed against his bindings.

“ _Tóspring_ -aaah!” he commanded, the spell transforming into a scream as the magic rebounded through the manacles, sending a bolt of pain through him. He sat down hard on his makeshift bed, breathing hard, and consigned himself to waiting.

However, it appeared that fate had other things in store for Mordred. The door to the dungeons burst open, revealing two angry druids, a man and a woman.

“This isn’t the armory!” the man spat, turning away. The woman moved to follow him, but noticed Mordred stewing angrily in his cell.

“Well, well,” she said smugly, stepping towards Mordred, her face still concealed by shadows. “Look what we have here, Ruadan. Mordred Céo.”

Ruadan sneered. “Last time I saw you, you were tied to a tree with iron chains, with no help for leagues in sight. His fortune hasn’t changed much, has it, Morgause?” The pair laughed cruelly, while Mordred’s face remained tight with fury. He gripped the bars of his cell, moonlight shining on his white knuckles.

“Worry about yourselves,” he hissed. “The White Goddess holds only the deepest contempt for oathbreakers.” Morgause growled deep in her throat, lunging for Mordred. As she stuck her hand through the bars and grabbed Mordred’s neck, bloody spots appeared on her skin, and with a sharp tearing noise, scales of bone broke through the flesh and gave Morgause’s arm a reptilian appearance.

“She can’t do any worse than this,” she snarled, her voice breaking slightly. Mordred looked down at the scaled arm, eyes wide.

“I warned that you would not leave unpunished,” he said, but his voice held surprise and no small amount of fear. Morgause growled again, throttling Mordred, but Ruadan placed a hand on her shoulder warningly, and she let him go. As Morgause withdrew her hand from the moonlight, the scales retreated, leaving no signs of the path they had torn through her skin. As quickly as they had entered, the two druids left, leaving Mordred to rot in his cell.

 

~M~

 

Arthur ran through the forest, still held by his captors. The rocks and roots stung his bare feet, and he nearly fell several times, but he was always dragged to his feet. In the dark of night, he had no idea where they were, despite searching for landmarks. After what felt like an eternity of running, they reached a small clearing, where horses were tied up and waiting for their masters. In the middle stood a man and a woman, conversing quietly by firelight. At Arthur’s arrival, they looked up, striding towards him. Wrenching himself free of his captors, the prince strode towards the two druids, who were obviously in charge. The woman walked up to meet him. Although Arthur was taller, she had an imposing presence, her fluttering red dress giving her the impression of being wreathed in fire.

“I thought we were to leave no survivors, Cerdan,” she said, her musical tone belying the steel in her words.

“He talked about chivalry,” the unscarred druid said, wincing slightly. The woman sneered at Arthur, who did his best to return her glare cooly. However, every fighter’s instinct he had told him to run for his life. Even armed to the teeth, he wouldn’t be able to take down more than three druids before being blasted into oblivion. The only option was negotiation.

“I’m here to—” he began, before the woman’s eyes flashed gold, and an invisible force clamped his jaw shut. Arthur struggled to open his mouth, muffled grunts of protest escaping from between his lips.

“Nimueh,” came a gently chiding voice, “let him speak.” The woman rolled her eyes, but with a muttered word, she released Arthur from the spell. Arthur gasped, the relief of having his body back under control more overwhelming than he’d expected. In front of him, the man stepped forward, lowering his hood. For the supposed commander of terrifying druids, he didn’t look especially intimidating. He had wavy blond hair and a beard, and was handsome in a rugged way. Clad in armor, Arthur would have no trouble thinking his enemy was a knight.

“Go on,” Alvarr said, his voice unexpectedly sympathetic. Arthur cleared his throat, trying not to cave to the unexpected kindness of the druid leader. Silently cursing all of the diplomacy lessons he had fallen asleep in, he began to speak.

“I’m here to ask you to leave the citizens of Camelot be, and to call the dragon off. We’ve done nothing to you,” Arthur said. The druids merely laughed, their taunting echoing in his ears.

“Nothing to us?” asked Alvarr incredulously. “Burning our children alive, hunting us like animals, does that mean nothing to you?” Arthur gritted his teeth as the other druids laughed menacingly.

“But the ordinary folk have no say in the matter,” he protested. “They’ve lost many tonight, and the grain stores—”

Alvarr cut him off with a raised hand. “No,” he said simply. Arthur’s hand went instinctively to his necklace for comfort, when he realized what he was holding. He quickly slipped it off his neck, stepping towards the roaring fire. He held it above the flames, wincing as they licked at his sleeve.

“I don’t know what kind of magic you can perform, but good luck getting this out intact,” he said. Alvarr examined the shard, an eyebrow raised.

“Do you even know what that is?” the druid asked, making a show of examining his fingernails.

Arthur shrugged. “A druidic artifact,” he replied. “Never really thought about it.”

“Why should I care?” Alvarr asked finally, a note of tension creeping into his voice.

“You’re looking for this,” Arthur pressed, eyes flicking between Alvarr and Nimueh. “I recognize your dragon, I saw him ten years ago outside of Cornwall.”

“Did you now?” breathed Alvarr, his eyes reflecting the fire. Arthur mentally rolled his eyes. Diplomacy had gotten him nowhere. Now, it was time to put on the pressure. “Well,” he mused, “if it is worthless, there’s no point in me keeping it.” He let the chain slip through his fingers, smirking as Alvarr yelped and Nimueh flinched. Recovering slightly, Alvarr stepped closer to Arthur.

“What’s your name?” he asked, a friendly smile on his face.

“Arthur,” began the prince, “E-Emrys. I’m a blacksmith in the castle,” he lied through his teeth, hoping it explained his broad shoulders and knowledge of chivalric codes. There was a murmur around the fire as druids exchanged knowing looks.

“Balinor,” Edwin hissed, his fingers flitting to the scar on his cheek. Arthur looked around nervously. Clearly the name meant something to them, but whatever it was, it seemed to be keeping him out of danger.

Alvarr stroked his beard thoughtfully, rings glistening in the firelight. “And how’d you come across that, Arthur, eh? Passed down through the family, perhaps?”

“I didn’t steal it,” Arthur protested, remembering the screams of a servant who’d been caught stealing as her hands were chopped off.

“Of course not,” Alvarr replied smoothly, raising a hand in a pacifying gesture. “Very well. Give us the shard, and the citizens of Camelot will never bear our force again.” There was an oiliness to his words that Arthur didn’t trust, but right now, he was completely at the druid’s mercy. Shuddering, he extended the necklace towards Alvarr, who practically ripped it out of his grasp.

“And our bargain?” Arthur asked, eyes steely. Alvarr nodded, striding to the middle of the clearing and spreading his arms.

“ _Nun de ge dei s'eikein kai emois epe'essin hepesthai_!” he cried, eyes flashing gold, but there was a stilted awkwardness to his words that Arthur hadn’t heard before. It reminded Arthur of when he was a young boy, trying to pronounce the arcane names of his ancestors. Regardless, the words seemed to have their intended effect, and with a final roar, the silhouette of Kilgharrah rapidly approached the druids. As they rushed about, packing up their supplies and dousing the fire, the gargantuan dragon landed before Arthur, muzzled and chained in iron shackles not unlike the ones Leomaris and Aithusa wore. He bowed his head before Alvarr, but there was a reluctance to the action that Arthur detected.

“Now show me the way back to Camelot,” Arthur said, folding his arms, but Alvarr said nothing, going about his business. Arthur hurried after him, becoming concerned. “According to the Habitus Nobilus—” Alvarr turned around, halting so sharply that Arthur nearly collided with him.

“You never mentioned anything about your own release during the negotiation,” he pointed out, a smirk creeping across his face, “So I must do nothing. Also, you need to be a knight for to be held to chivalric codes, and as a blacksmith, you’re not. And lastly...we’re druids. We don’t have rules.” In the remnants of the firelight, Alvarr’s grin was perfectly macabre. “You’re our prisoner now, Arthur Emrys!”


	4. The Curse Revealed

Merlin awoke to a hand shaking his shoulder. He groaned, sitting upright and placing a hand to the back of his head. It came away dark brown with dried blood, and Merlin groaned again.

"You'll have quite the lump," Sir Leon said wryly, but his eyes were full of concern. "You'll live, though. We'll find somebody to patch you up." He ripped a strip off Merlin's coat and bound it around his head, in the event that the wound re-opened. Merlin's eyes suddenly widened, and he made an effort to stand up, although a bout of dizziness sent him reeling. Leon caught him, Merlin staggering back to his feet.

"They've taken him! They've taken Arthur!" he cried. Leon nodded grimly, his normally cheery countenance stoic.

"Come with me," he said, offering his arm to Merlin for support. Together, they walked briskly to the council room, where Uther and Tarald stood over a series of maps.

"We have to do something," burst out Merlin, placing a hand on the table.

"Get him out of here," Uther said, not even sparing a glance upward.

"Nobody knows the forest like me, I could — " Merlin's interjection was quickly hushed by a glance from Tarald.

"You're not a knight, Merlin," he said, casting a sympathetic look the manservant’s way. "You're just a servant. There is no more work you can do for your master here." Merlin shook him off with a frustrated growl, but he knew that he couldn't help Arthur without revealing his knowledge of magic.

Gwaine perked up, remembering the events of yesterday. "The druid in the dungeon — Mordred, he talked about Kilgharrah," he pointed out. "Maybe he knows where the bloody thing's headed."

"We could strike a bargain with him," Merlin added, his enthusiasm for the plan growing. "Freedom, in exchange for — "

"The druids left Mordred in his cell," responded Tarald. "They must be from a different tribe; they don't care what his fate is." The prince turned to Uther. "We can figure out where they're headed if we send out scouts," he said, pointing to the nearby forest on the map. "If we leave within the hour, we can-"

"That won't be enough!" Merlin shouted, slamming his fist on the table. Percival moved to grab his arm and pull the manservant back, but Tarald held up a staying hand. He placed it on Merlin's shoulder. 

"This is not the time to charge headlong into danger," he said, his eyes earnest. "I know you care about Arthur, but he is my brother as well. Now, go back to your quarters." Merlin glared at the prince, but he kept his mouth shut. Tarald was right, it would not bode well for Merlin to seek out Arthur on his own. Shooting Uther one last furious glare, Merlin turned and stalked out of the room, plots already beginning to convalesce in his mind.

 

~M~

 

Mordred fiddled with the lock on his cell door, hoping that the dragon’s fire had damaged it enough that he could pick his way out. However, it seemed that Camelot had been dealing with vagabonds long enough that the lock was designed to be nigh unpickable. As he heard the door to the dungeons open, he quickly moved back against the wall, innocently leaning on it. Merlin stalked through the hallways, stopping before Mordred’s cell.

“You, Mordred,” he said bluntly. “You knew the dragon.”

Mordred shrugged. “I’ve heard of him, of course,” he replied, keeping his tone light but remaining wary.

“Where does he go?” Merlin asked. “He can’t be hiding in Camelot, somebody would’ve noticed by now.”

Mordred chuckled, but it was a humorless laugh. “You haven’t heard the stories, have you?” Merlin did not reply, his expression still dark. “Alvarr and his ragtag band of druids make camp at the Tomb of Ashkanar, which can only be found by a druid possessing one of the pieces of its key,” Mordred continued, relishing the downtrodden expression on Merlin’s face. “Or, if you’ve already been there.”

“There are myths about dragons, too, and they’re real,” Merlin countered. “So where is it?”

“Why ask me?” Mordred replied innocently, examining his fingernails.

Merlin rolled his eyes. “Because you’re a druid.”

“And you’ve finally accepted your destiny? Come to join us?” pressed Mordred, knowing full well that it would irritate Merlin. The servant gripped the bars of the cell, thrusting his face between them.

“ _ Never _ ,” he hissed, eyes flashing dangerously. Suddenly, the fight went out of him, and his shoulders slumped. “They took Arthur.”

“I knew there was somebody you wanted to impress,” Mordred gloated. “Well, if you want to do so by mounting a rescue against insurmountable odds, you’ll have to do it yourself. I see no reason to help you.”

Merlin groaned in frustration, pulling away from the bars and pacing for a few seconds. Finally, he turned back to the imprisoned druid. “I can get you out of here,” he said, reluctance clear in his voice.

Mordred arched an eyebrow. “Good luck keeping your magic secret after that,” he observed. 

Merlin shook his head. “I know another spell, quieter,” he replied. Stepping closer to the warlock, Mordred examined him closely. There was something familiar in the young man’s blue eyes, a force of raw will that Mordred had seen before.

“What’s your name?” he asked, probing for information. 

Merlin eyed him curiously, but saw no reason not to indulge the druid. “Merlin,” he replied. “Merlin Emrys.”

Mordred nodded, his suspicions confirmed. “Good name, Merlin,” he mused, trying to cover his curiosity. “I’ll bet your father picked it out.” Brushing his hands free of dust, he cleared his throat. “Very well then,” Mordred said. “Get me out of this cell, and we’ll go save your bloody Prince Arthur. Do we have a deal?” He extended his hand, still manacled, through the bars. Merlin hesitated, but grabbed Mordred’s wrist.

“Deal.”

“Excellent,” Mordred grinned. “Now, if you don’t mind?” Merlin took a step back, raising his hand to chest level.

“ _ Unspanne þás mægþ _ ,” he whispered, and the cell door swung open. Mordred stepped through, cautiously looking around, but all the guards were outside helping to clean up the city. Picking up a nearby sword, Merlin hacked at Mordred’s shackles until they fell free, clattering to the floor loudly. Mordred breathed deeply as his magic returned and the swirling power filled every inch of his body.    
  


“Much better,” he whispered, eyes flashing gold.

“Come on,” Merlin urged. “Somebody’s bound to come back down here any moment now.”

Mordred dug through a series of chests nearby until he found his cloak and bag. “Not without these,” he insisted, fastening them on.

“What’s so important about a ratty old cloak?” Merlin asked, eyes flickering between the door and Mordred.

“Do you think I’d really carry a normal cloak?” Mordred replied, swishing the edge around his ankles. The longer Merlin watched, the less he cared about looking at Mordred. He looked just like an ordinary person, hardly worth paying attention to at all…

Merlin’s jaw dropped. “Oh, that’s brilliant,” he gasped. “How’s that work, then?”

“I’ve got to keep some secrets,” Mordred replied, smiling slyly. “Come on then, let’s rescue your noble prince.”

Merlin led Mordred through a back passage, eventually leading down through the castle to a drainage grate. The two men crouched in front of the grating, eyeing the fiercely guarded way before them.

“Before we go,” Mordred whispered, turning to face Merlin. “You’re no doubt loyal to your princeling, but how far are you willing to go for him?”

“I’d die for him,” Merlin vowed, eyes sparking. 

Mordred sighed with relief. “That makes things easier for us then.” He turned back, eyes sweeping across the green in front of them. Merlin followed his gaze, eyes lighting on the wyvern cage.

“You want to release the wyverns?” He asked incredulously, no small amount of fear in his voice. 

Any sane man would have turned and ran from Mordred’s grin, and it was only Merlin’s desire to save Arthur that made him stand his ground.

“We’re doing a lot more than that,” the druid replied. “We’re stealing a dragon.”

 

~M~

 

Gwaine was enjoying his lunchtime apple when he noticed a flash of blue and red. Standing up, he noticed Merlin and Mordred hacking away at the lock on the wyverns’ cage, Mordred’s cape lying discarded nearby. His shrill whistle brought Tarald and the rest of the knights running to the ramparts. 

“Go down and get them before they do too much damage,” Tarald ordered, but he was not overly concerned. Leon and Percival nodded, drawing their swords and starting down the ramparts.

“I thought you said we were stealing a dragon!” Merlin hissed as he filed at the lock on the cage door. “They’re coming after us, why aren’t we using magic?”

“Because,” Mordred grunted, as he pulled at the lock, “We want them to come after us!” True to his words, the red capes of the Camelot army were rapidly converging on them. 

“Now!” cried Mordred, pulling the lock free. Merlin dove for cover as the angry wyverns rocketed into the sky, free for the first time in many years. The knights immediately converged into a defensive formation, raising their shields to fend off the beasts. Mordred yanked on Merlin’s arm, dragging him over to Aithusa. She looked at them curiously, a tendril of smoke curling from her nostrils. While Merlin hurriedly worked at the chain binding her to the ground, Mordred stood in front of the white dragon.

“ _ Kari miss, epsipass imalla krat. Elate na petaxete mazi mas _ ,” he whispered, stroking her muzzled nose. As Merlin heard the words, he instinctively knew that they were wrong somehow, but they seemed to have their intended effect. Something sparked behind Aithusa’s eyes, an intelligence that had long lain dormant. With a snap, she shook her wings free, sending Merlin flying. Scooping the two warlocks up in her claws, she took off into the sky, Tarald watching angrily from the ramparts. The knights, still beating the wyverns back, were helpless to stop the dragon as she took off into the sky, sunlight glistening on her wings. 

Gwaine whistled admiringly. “Not bad for a manservant,” he said, raising his eyebrows. Tarald said nothing, choosing instead to slam his fist into the stone wall.

“Sire, shall I unchain Leomaris?” Leon asked, running up the ramparts.

“No,” replied Tarald, eyes dark with anger. “They won’t get far.”

Merlin clutched Aithusa’s leg for dear life, eyes wide as he stared at the castle receding into the distance. Beside him, Mordred whooped, curls blowing back from his exhilarated face.

“Welcome to a life of crime, Merlin!” he shouted over the roar of the wind. Aithusa let out a growl, resonating through Merlin’s bones deep and into his soul. Despite the muzzle on her mouth, Merlin could feel the happiness radiating off her, and to his surprise, he could feel his own excitement growing by the minute as well.

When Mordred judged that they had put enough distance between themselves and Camelot, he cried to Aithusa, “ _ O Drakon, mas metaferei pros ta kato-o-o-o! _ ” She landed in a small clearing in the forest, far from any town that Merlin knew.

“We’ll camp here for the night, then move on in the morning,” Mordred ordered, slinging off his pack. “Best get comfy, Merlin.” Merlin obediently sat down, taking off his neckerchief and using it to polish his boots. Meanwhile, Mordred began searching for firewood, and returned after a short while with a large bundle of sticks. He arranged them in a spoke, then lit the fire with a flash of his eyes.

“So, Merlin, tell me, where did you come from?” Mordred asked conversationally, eyes flickering to the younger man.

“Ealdor, a little village in Essetir,” Merlin replied, staring at the fire. “My mother raised me by herself. We had a good life, until Ealdor burned to the ground ten years ago. After that, I got taken in as a manservant for Arthur, and I’ve been in Camelot ever since. I never stopped looking for my father, though.”

Mordred merely grunted in response. Sensing the tension in his mood, Merlin stood up.

“My father, Balinor Emrys. You only helped me once you knew my name. I’m not stupid, Mordred,” he accused. “You knew my father.”

Mordred sat back, turning his attention away from the fire. “He was like an uncle to me,” he said, facing Merlin. “Only Cerdan called him Emrys. Everybody else called him Balinor, or just plain Dragonlord.”

“Dragonlord?” Merlin echoed, stepping closer to the druid. “Why did they call him that?”

Mordred turned back to the fire, poking the embers with a stick. “Some druids had the power to command dragons. Balinor was the last one who could do so -  _ truly  _ do so. The rest of us needed iron to bind the dragon to our will,” he explained. “He commanded my old tribe’s dragon. You look just like him, you know.”

“That’s not true!” Merlin cried. “He was a traveling craftsman, who always obeyed the law!”

Mordred rolled his eyes. “He was a druid, Merlin, a criminal and a warlock.”

“My father,” Merlin said through clenched teeth, “was not a druid.” A fireball flared to life in his hand, swirling as he waited to strike.

“Don’t bother; you’ll just be beaten again.” Mordred didn’t even bother to look away from the embers.

“You cheated,” protested Merlin. “In a fair fight, I’d beat you.”

“Well, then why should I fight fair?” With a flick of his hand, Mordred sent Merlin flying into the air, leaving him hanging twenty feet above ground.

“Now, pay attention,” Mordred lectured, standing up and looking at Merlin. “The rules of Camelot, chivalry — none of that matters out here. The only rules that are important are the ones you hold yourself to.” His eyes glowed a steady gold as Merlin struggled to free himself from Mordred’s spell. 

“Whether or not you accept that your father was a druid  _ and _ a good man, that’s up to you. But you’ve got wild magic in your blood, boy, and you’ll have to free it sooner or later.” Mordred paced around Merlin casually. “Me, on the other hand, I could leave you here to your own devices. But,” he added, holding up a finger, “I gave you my word that I’d help you, and I make a rule not to break it.” 

With a gesture, Mordred lowered Merlin to the ground, letting him drop the last few feet. Merlin hit the ground, his breath whooshing out as he landed on his back. Mordred stood over him, a hand extended.

“So can you work with a druid? Or can’t you?” After a moment’s hesitation, Merlin reached up to grab Mordred’s hand and pulled himself upright.

“That’s more like it,” Mordred said, smirking. “Rest up now. Tomorrow, we head for Howden.”

 

~M~

 

Howden, as it turned out, was a small, druid-friendly town on the edge of Nemeth. Aithusa remained surprisingly well-hidden in the forest as Merlin and Mordred entered the town, the younger man clearly on edge. Mordred guided him to the area behind the tavern, where what appeared to be an old sack lay. Bending down next to the sack, Mordred sucked in a lungful of air, then shouted, “GAIUS!!” The sack sat bolt upright, revealing itself to be a disheveled old man.

“Must you do that, Mordred?” Gaius complained, running a hand through his hair before the sight of Merlin stopped him cold. “By the Goddess, Merlin, is that really you?”

Merlin was equally surprised to see the physician. “I thought you were exiled!” he exclaimed, crouching down to help the old man up.

“Uther never specified which town I should be exiled to,” Gaius replied, a hint of mischief sparkling in his eyes. 

“You always were a crafty old fox,” Mordred said admiringly. “Come on, we need to talk.”

The three men entered the tavern, moving towards an empty table in the corner. However, Mordred motioned for Merlin to keep back. 

“Keep watch,” he instructed. Merlin reluctantly hung back, but nodded all the same. As Mordred and Gaius sat down, a barmaid placed two mugs of ale in front of them. 

“So what brings you back to Howden?” Gaius asked, picking up the mug in front of him.

Mordred took a long swallow of ale. “I’m going to find Kilgharrah,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Gaius nearly choked on his own drink, and Mordred gave him an enthusiastic thump on the back.

“I know where he’ll be,” Mordred continued, “and I’m getting him back.”

“You’ve gone mad,” Gaius replied, still wheezing slightly. “You know better than anyone what Kilgharrah’s capable of.”

Mordred leaned forward over the table. “That’s why I know what Alvarr’s up to. All I need is some reinforcement.”

“Alvarr’s not the type to strike a bargain,” Gaius protested. “What exactly do you have in mind?”

Wordlessly, Mordred jerked his head in Merlin’s direction. Gaius followed his indication, eyeing Merlin skeptically.

“I know he’s strong, but what does that have to do with-”

“Merlin is the child of Balinor Emrys,” Mordred said, raising his eyebrows significantly. “His only child.”

Gaius gaped at the younger man. “But that could change the course of events entirely!” he gasped, eyes wide. “I’ll find us some good druids, there’s bound to be a few mad as you in this village.”

“One can only hope,” Mordred replied, smirking.

 

~M~

 

As Alvarr’s druids prepared to move out the morning after their attack on Camelot, Arthur found himself in the custody of the two druids who had originally captured him. Edwin moved towards him with a rope, one end already tied to his horse, but the other druid stopped him from tying it around Arthur’s wrists.

“We’ll be faster if he rides,” the man said. “Alvarr will want to get to the Tower as soon as possible.” Arthur remained silent, looking between the two men. Edwin spat on the ground, but dropped the rope. 

“Trust you to be soft on him, Cerdan,” he scoffed, walking back to his own horse. Cerdan gestured for Arthur to get on in front of him, patting the horse’s side. 

“She can take it,” he said as Arthur struggled on, hands still bound. “And I know you won’t try anything funny.” He broke Arthur’s invisible shackles with a world, allowing the prince to climb onto the horse.

“What did he mean by that?” Arthur asked as he rubbed his wrists, sensing the druid to be kinder than his scarred companion. “About you being soft?”

Cerdan sighed, kicking the horse into a gallop. “My own son would be a few years older than you,” he said, after a long pause. “Ten years he’s been gone.”

“I’m sorry,” Arthur said honestly, surprised to feel genuine sympathy for his captor. “You must miss him very much.”

Cerdan grunted, ending the conversation.  _ Perhaps he too sensed that he should be harsher _ , Arthur thought as they continued riding, eyes scanning for any familiar landmarks. However, the forest only seemed to grow more uniform as they progressed, and he soon gave up. 

They rode until it was too dark for the horses to see, setting up camp for the evening in a small clearing. By now, Arthur was certain they were nearing Camelot’s borders. If he didn’t escape soon, he would be at the mercy of Camelot’s numerous enemies. However, the moon was obscured by clouds, and he could barely see his hand in front of his face. Resigned to wait for a better opportunity, Arthur made to settle down and sleep, only for Nimueh to kick him in the side. Arthur folded in half, gasping and choking as his already bruised ribs were abused once more.

“Alvarr wants to talk to you,” Nimueh growled, hauling the still coughing Arthur to his feet. “Move.” Arthur stumbled in front of her as she shoved him towards the central campfire where Alvarr sat, firelight casting flickering shadows across his face. He indicated for Arthur to sit beside him, where a bowl of stew was waiting. Hesitantly, Arthur sat down, moving the bowl in front of him but not eating.

“Go ahead,” Alvarr said, a slight smile on his face. Warily, Arthur ate a spoonful. It was surprisingly delicious, full of hearty chunks of meat and vegetables, and he quickly devoured the rest of it. Setting the bowl down, Arthur wiped his mouth, only to realize that Alvarr had eaten nothing.

“It’s poisoned,” gasped Arthur, his stomach lurching. Alvarr chuckled, shaking his head. 

“If I wanted you dead, you’d be lying in a ditch long before now,” he said, and a chill slid down Arthur’s spine as he realized the druid chief meant every word. He glanced around, spying a dagger lying discarded nearby. If he could grab it when Alvarr wasn’t looking, he could use it kill him and make a run for it. At the very least, he could take down the druid’s leader before he died himself.

“I believe you,” Arthur said honestly, inching towards the weapon. “So why keep me alive?”

Alvarr dangled the shard he’d taken from Arthur in the air, the fire glistening off it. “Do you know what this is?” He asked, voice still light.

Arthur shrugged. “A druid medallion?”

“This is one of three hundred and thirty-three pieces of a key,” Alvarr replied, the shard reflected in his eyes. “A triskelion, the key to one of the most important pieces of the Old Religion known to mankind.”

Leaning forward, Arthur studied the shard. There was a curve to one of the edges, lending plausibility to the idea that it could be part of something bigger. “Where’s it lead to?” He asked, intrigued despite himself.

“The Tomb of Ashkanar,” Alvarr said reverently. “The house of the last known dragon egg. It can only be found by those possessing a part of the key. Only when all parts are assembled can the tomb be opened, and even then, you must get past the deadly traps that lie in wait.”

“Sounds like a myth,” said Arthur, but his eyes were wide. “There’s no more dragons.” 

“Oh, but there are,” Alvarr breathed. “Tell me, Arthur, do you know anything of the White Goddess?”

Arthur shook his head mutely.

“She is the chief of all our deities, the judge of all character, good and evil.” Alvarr sighed heavily, staring at the fire. “My tribe and I, we found the key, and the tomb. This dragon would’ve been the turning point in our war against Camelot. We got past the traps, but before we could find the egg, there was a cave-in. The White Goddess had not deemed us worthy of the last dragon in the Five Kingdoms.” He turned to look at Arthur, grinning with a hint of lunacy.

“We did not know the price we would have to pay for our transgression,” Alvarr continued, Arthur staring in horror at the druid. “We do not eat, we do not drink, we do not sleep. We are wracked with pain, Emrys, pain like you cannot understand. All because we were greedy.”

Arthur’s mouth hung open slightly, but he continued to scoot away from Alvarr. There was a spark of madness in Alvarr’s eyes that deeply disturbed him. He had to get away as fast as possible. The moon began to emerge from behind the clouds, illuminating parts of the camp.

“There is one way to end the curse,” Alvarr said, his voice growing more intense. “We go back to the tomb, we find that egg, and when it hatches, our curse will be lifted. Thanks to you, we have the last piece of the key.” Arthur’s hand found the dagger hilt, and he clenched it tightly behind his back. “But the egg, it needs blood to hatch. Blood from somebody... _ special _ . That’s why you’re still alive,” concluded Alvarr. “For now.” 

Arthur’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. The name  _ Emrys _ obviously carried some weight to these druids, a meaning that he did not understand. Something connected them to Merlin, something that went deeper than the amulet that had once belonged to the manservant.

Alvarr distracted Arthur by holding out his empty bowl invitingly. “Would you like some more?” 

Lunging forward, Arthur stuck the dagger deep into Alvarr’s chest, piercing his heart. He moved to run away, but froze in horror when Alvarr did not collapse. A slight smirk on his face, Alvarr removed the dagger from his chest, twirling it in his fingers. There were a few drops of Alvarr’s blood on the blade, but none from the wound, clearly visible through the laces of his shirt. 

“Just out of curiosity,” the druid said idly, dagger flashing silver in his hands, “What did you plan on doing after you killed me?” With a shout, Arthur turned and ran, only to stop dead in his tracks a second later. Bathed in the moonlight, the camp had transformed completely. Where once druids stood were now humanoid monsters, coated in bone-white scales. Looking closer, he saw the reptilian plating had actually grown out of the druids’ skin, and spots of their blood glistened black in the moonlight. He turned to run once more, but the cursed druids had surrounded him on all sides. Arthur recognized Nimueh, her red dress ripped to tatters by the sharp edges of her scales. Cerdan, eyes full of regret beneath his mask of bone. Edwin, even more vicious-looking now that the flesh had pulled back from his teeth, exposing them in a feral grin.

Adrenaline surged through Arthur, and he sprang forward, running through the trees. With a word, Nimueh sent a fireball after him, and he rolled behind a tree to avoid it. When a druid loomed in front of him, Arthur instinctively grabbed his neck and twisted, a crack echoing through the forest. However, his victim was not fazed, and merely pulled his head back into position. Gasping for breath, Arthur continued to run, only for Edwin to appear out of the shadows.

“ _ Gehæftan _ !” Edwin shouted, and Arthur toppled to the ground, his legs bound by magic. Edwin hauled him to his feet and dragged him back to camp, shoving him to the ground in front of the fire.

“Look, Arthur,” Alvarr commanded, still in the shadow. “The moonlight shows our true forms. This is our curse. We are no longer mortal beings, and as such, we cannot die like them. And yet, we still live, our every move agony as our flesh is cut by our own bones.” He reached towards Arthur, stepping out of the shadow of the trees into the moonlight. Arthur flinched away as the scales ripped through Alvarr’s skin, unable to hide his fear and disgust.

“Still think they’re only myths?” Alvarr asked mockingly, running the dagger up and down his scales. The action created sparks, glowing as they flew through the air around Arthur. He stared at them in horrified fascination, not noticing that Edwin had crept up behind him. With the butt of his sword, the druid bashed Arthur across the skull, sending him crumpling to the ground, unconscious once more. 


	5. A Meeting of Paths

Mordred, Merlin, and Gaius strode down a line of recruits, assembled in the forest outside of Howden. Their variety rivaled that of a circus, men and women of every shape, size, and color banded together into a ragtag crew.

“As promised,” Gaius said proudly, “All skilled druids and warlocks, willing to follow you to the ends of the Earth. And mad, to boot.”

“This is your idea of reinforcements?” asked Merlin, eyes darting between the assembled people skeptically. Mordred rolled his eyes.

“You of all people should know that appearance has nothing to do with skill,” he replied, striding down the line while Merlin processed the insult.

“And what’s in it for us?” Came a voice at the end of the line. Mordred stooped slightly, inspecting the hooded figure. He pulled off the cowl, revealing a young woman with dark hair and fair skin. 

“Freya!” He exclaimed, seeming genuinely pleased to see her. However, she apparently did not feel the same way, and punched Mordred square in the nose before he could react. The druid reeled backwards, clutching his nose.

“You got me cursed!” Freya shouted, hands on her hips. “ _ Cursed _ , Céo!”

Mordred had the sense to look ashamed. “I did apologize,” he replied, voice muffled by the hands still kept clapped over his nose. “And I got you a horse.” 

Freya poked him accusingly in the chest. “You better get me a cure, Céo,” she warned. “Or else.”

“Oh, you’ll get it,” Mordred promised. “That, and riches beyond your wildest dreams!” He raised his voice, so that the other druids could hear. “What say you?”

A cheer went up among the remaining druids, who began to saddle their horses in preparation for their journey.

“They’re all mad,” Merlin said bleakly to no one in particular. “We’re going to die.”

Gaius clapped him on the shoulder fondly. “You’ll find that you need a little madness if you’re going to work with Mordred,” he replied. 

Personally, Merlin would have preferred not to find out just how mad Mordred was, especially if that involved using a lodestone in the middle of a storm — up in the sky on Aithusa’s back.

“You’re going to get us killed!” he shouted at Mordred over the thunder. “Take us down, before the lightning hits the metal!”

“We’ll be fine, just a bit longer!” Mordred cried back, eyes fixed on the lodestone balanced on his knees.

Merlin looked at the lodestone, then at the sky. “It doesn’t even point north! What’s the point of having a lodestone if it doesn’t point north!”

“You really think I’d have a lodestone that only points north?” Mordred grinned, a flash of lightning illuminating his crazed smile. Once again, Merlin was caught somewhere between fear and awe of this strange, wild druid. The rain continued to lash against his face, and he shuddered.

“What are you so excited about, anyway?” Merlin cried, hugging himself against the wind.

Mordred smirked, his teeth bared into the storm. “We’re catching up.”

 

~M~

 

Alvarr looked to the sky as Kilgharrah began to circle, his roar rumbling through the hilly terrain like the thunder before a storm. Arthur and the druids crested a hill, looking down at the great stone tower nestled into a valley. The peak reached tauntingly towards the grey clouds, a testament to the power of the man whose bones it held.

“Time to go, Emrys,” Edwin growled, yanking Arthur off Cerdan’s horse. Arthur allowed himself to be led towards the Tomb, stumbling slightly as the druids yanked on his lead. Alvarr had placed the fragment back around Arthur’s neck, and the cool metal felt strangely soothing against his chest, even as his heart fluttered with anxiety. However, if he was to die, it would be with dignity, and so he squared his jaw and did his best not to show his fear. 

Mordred pricked up his ears as a rumble echoed across the rocky cliffs, holding up a hand to prevent Aithusa from answering the call. 

“We’re close,” he breathed, urging his horse forward to scout ahead, still glancing at the lodestone in his hands. Merlin pulled up next to Gaius, their horses trotting at a slower pace.  

“What kind of a lodestone is that?” He asked, voice lowered so Mordred could not hear him.

“Nobody knows,” answered Gaius. “Mordred prefers to keep his past hidden, but he had it when I met him, back when he controlled Kilgharrah.”

“What?” Merlin’s outburst startled a few birds into flight, and he brought his voice back down. “He never told me about that.”

“That’s for a good reason.” Gaius shook his head, a mixture of sorrow and nostalgia on his face. “You see, as a boy, Mordred was learning the ancient language of the dragons, to prepare for the day when he would need to command it. Only the dragonlords knew them, but if a dragon was bound with iron, a normal druid could sway a dragon to their will with words. The second in command convinced him to share these words, reasoning that he would need an ally.” Merlin nodded, realization starting to dawn on his face.

“That night, the second in command took control of Kilgharrah, and made him kill any druids loyal to Mordred. He left the boy to die, chained to an oak with iron shackles to bind his magic. He was only a few years younger than you are now.”

“So, that’s why he’s so…” Merlin gestured vaguely towards his own head. 

Gaius stopped him with a look. “There’s no one reason for why Mordred is who he is. Once he escaped, he traveled far and wide across Albion, looking for a way to kill a being of magic. He found it — a weapon forged in dragon’s breath. A single bolt was all he managed to forge before the dragons were hunted to extinction. Now, he carries that crossbow with him at all times — not for protection, you understand, but so that he can use it on his treacherous second in command.”

“Alvarr,” Merlin breathed. Gaius looked at the young warlock, confused. “What? I heard the name when you were talking.”

“Best not mention it too loud,” Gaius admonished. “Especially now that you know the weight it bears. Mordred does not take kindly to those who mock his suffering.”

Merlin’s eyes flickered between Gaius and Mordred’s figure. “How’d he escape?”

“You see, Mordred always had a way with animals.” Gaius nodded sagely. “After three days, the creatures of the forest saw his need, and began to chew away at the tree. Eventually, they destroyed enough that Mordred was able to slip free.”

“The animals of the forest,” Merlin skeptically repeated. “Which ones?” Gaius took a breath, ready to explain, but stopped, his brow furrowed.

“Woodpeckers, of course,” Mordred said, having silently ridden up behind the pair. “Twenty of them.” Turning away from the startled pair, he moved to address the group.

“Wait here,” he ordered. “Merlin and I will enter the Tomb.”

“And if you don’t return?” Gaius asked, worry furrowing his brow.

“Then leave,” Mordred replied bluntly. “There’s no sense in getting us all killed at once.” Jerking his head for Merlin to follow him, he dismounted and began to creep towards the stone spire of the tomb.

The way was steep and rocky, and the two men proceeded in silence in order to focus on their footing. Eventually, they reached a deep tunnel, and with a whispered word, Mordred held aloft a ball of light to guide their way.

“Why’d you tell Gaius to leave? I thought druids were supposed to be loyal,” Merlin whispered as he glanced around warily. The tomb was ancient, old traps festooned with spiderwebs and rust, but the spikes and circular blades that protruded through the walls still looked sharp to the touch.

“The only person you can truly be loyal to is yourself,” replied Mordred. “I learned a long time ago that magic blood does not guarantee friendship.”

Merlin snorted at that, earning him a raised eyebrow from his companion.

“You know, for siding with Camelot, you’ve done quite a bit to undermine them,” Mordred observed, nimbly skirting a bottomless pit nearby. “You’ve sprung a condemned man from jail, stolen one of the last remaining dragons in existence…and you’re power hungry.  _ Very _ power hungry.”

“That’s not true!” Merlin hissed, and grabbed the back of Mordred’s cloak to bring them face to face. “I serve; I have no desire for power!”

“Power doesn’t have to mean ruling,” Mordred replied with a smirk. Before Merlin could reply, the druid held up a hand, shushing him. “We’re here.”

Over Mordred’s shoulder, Merlin could see the faint blue glow of other lights and hear murmured voices. Together, he and Mordred crept over a ledge, able to observe the druids without being detected.

Alvarr was dragging Arthur by the arm, holding his piece of the Triskelion aloft. The other druids had formed a half-circle around him, and were clinging to their leader’s every word.

“Fear not, my friends,” he crowed, shaking Arthur triumphantly. “For the day of our salvation is finally at hand!”

As the druids cheered, Merlin put a hand to his mouth in horror. He started forward, but Mordred held out a cautioning hand. The older warlock turned a meaningful glance at Merlin, and he pulled back, still simmering with anger.

“For ten years, we have suffered for the crime of protecting our home, our heritage, our families!” Alvarr cried, to rousing agreement. “But no more!” 

In front of him stood a pair of huge stone doors, with a giant triskelion-shaped hole in the middle. Nearly all of it had been filled with golden shards, but the left-hand branch was still missing a piece - the piece Alvarr held in his hands. He slammed it into its fitting, eyes reflecting the golden glow as the triskelion sealed itself into a solid key. With a thunderous crash, the doors flew open, revealing a single dragon egg perched on a pedestal. Its duty fulfilled, the triskelion fell out of its hole, shattering into its multitude of pieces once more.

Merlin gasped, leaning forward despite the danger. A pebble clattered down from their ledge, causing Nimueh to look back sharply, but Merlin and Mordred remained undiscovered.

“We have to do something!” Merlin hissed. “They’ll kill Arthur.”

“No,” Mordred replied, eyes fixed on Alvarr. “We must wait for the precise moment to strike.”

Merlin made a frustrated noise. “And when is that, when you stand to profit the most?”

“Can I ask you something?” retorted Mordred, grabbing the back of Merlin’s neckerchief and shaking him like an errant puppy. “Have I given you reason not to trust me?” Merlin merely glared in response.

“Fine,” Mordred sighed. “Wait here, and please don’t do anything…stupid.” So saying, he snuck down from the ledge, hurrying through a back passageway.

Meanwhile, the band of druids entered the antechamber, surrounding the pedestal as Alvarr dragged Arthur towards it. He brandished a knife, glinting in the shafts of sunlight. Arthur looked desperately around for an escape, his breath coming in shallow pants. Even with all of his training, he couldn’t see any way out of his current predicament. Closing his eyes, Arthur did his best to steady his breathing. If he was going to die, he would not give them the satisfaction of hearing him scream.

As Alvarr continued his speech, Mordred crept towards the antechamber, inching his head around the corner to observe the other druids. However, a stone crashed down on his head, and he hit the floor, out cold.

“Sorry, Mordred,” Merlin whispered, letting the stone float to the ground with a gesture. “Arthur needs me.” He dragged Mordred’s unconscious body out of sight, then took his place behind the antechamber door.

“With this blood sacrifice,” Alvarr called, “our debts shall be repaid, and the balance of magic restored!” So saying, he made a shallow cut on Arthur’s exposed forearm, letting the blood droplets fall onto the egg, pale blue rapidly staining crimson. Arthur cracked open an eye, surprised to still be alive.

“That’s it?” He asked warily, eyeing Alvarr.

“No sense in killing you. Even a blacksmith would fetch a decent ransom,” Alvarr replied, a malicious grin on his face. He stepped backwards from the egg, pulling Arthur with him, and stood stock still, waiting for the egg to hatch. Silence reigned in the antechamber as not a soul dared breathe. Moments turned into minutes, and the egg did not so much as wiggle.

“Did it work?” Ruadan asked anxiously. “Is the curse lifted?”

Alvarr rolled his eyes, producing a knife from his belt. Before Arthur could react, he had flung it at the curious druid, and the knife embedded itself blade-first in his chest.

“He killed Ruadan!” Cerdan cried, but the druid in question merely looked down at his supposedly fatal wound in surprise.

“Hang on, I’m not dead,” he objected, pulling the dagger out with a wet squelch. “It didn’t work!”

Alvarr grabbed Arthur roughly by the throat, drawing him close. “You, boy!” He spat. “Your father — was he Balinor Emrys?! Was he?”

Despite the pressure on his windpipe, Arthur managed a grim smile. “ _ No _ ,” he replied hoarsely.

“Then where’s his child?” Alvarr shouted, shaking Arthur as he throttled him. “The child who lives in Camelot? The last true Dragonlord?” Arthur merely spit in Alvarr’s face. With a roar, Alvarr tossed Arthur into one of the doors, eyes glowing gold to enhance his blow. Arthur crumpled to the floor, unconscious.

Nimueh turned to Cerdan and Edwin, eyes hard with rage. “You brought us the wrong person!” She howled.

“No!” Edwin protested. “He had the fragment. He’s the right age. He said his name was Emrys!”

Morgause stepped forward, finger pointed at Alvarr accusingly. “You brought us here for nothing!”

“I won’t take questioning from  _ you _ , Morgause,” Alvarr snarled, a fireball appearing in his hand. “If anyone dares challenge my authority, let them speak!”

Arthur stirred, reflexively lifting a hand to his head with a grimace. Feeling a hand on his arm, he reared back, prepared to strike, but stopped when he saw it was none other than Merlin, come to his aid. The manservant motioned for him to be quiet and, slinging one of Arthur’s arms over his shoulder, began to walk him out of the tomb. Arthur pulled on Merlin’s hand, stopping them to grab a fragment of the triskelion. But as he took it in his hand, he sent a few other fragments clattering across the floor, drawing Nimueh’s attention once more. This time, she noticed Merlin, and cried out, “He’s escaping!”

“Come on!” Merlin shouted, dragging Arthur behind him through the labyrinthine tunnels. As they ran, Arthur deliberately trod on a few pressure-sensitive stones as he shoved Merlin ahead, wincing at the unholy screeches the druids made as they were mangled by the emerging blades. Turning a corner, Merlin and Arthur nearly ran into Mordred, who was heading in the opposite direction to investigate the noise.

“You!” Arthur hissed, lunging for Mordred, but Merlin held on to his arm, stopping him from throttling the other man.

“We’ve come to rescue you, sire!” he cried, placing himself between prince and druid.

Arthur looked pointedly at Mordred over Merlin’s shoulder. Mordred returned the glare with an added smirk. “Him?” The blonde asked incredulously.

“ _ Me _ ,” the druid snarked back. “Now, if we could get back to the part where we’re running for our lives?” Indeed, the angry cries of the druids were rapidly approaching, and the trio had no doubt they would be after more than a few drops’ worth of blood. They sped off towards the entrance of the tomb, narrowly avoiding traps left and right as Alvarr and his cohorts closed in on them, until they reached the final tunnel before the exit. Arthur and Merlin kept running, but Mordred stopped dead in his tracks.

“Keep going,” he urged. “I’ll lead them away. Go to Gaius, have everyone move to the forest borders at the north.”

Merlin’s brow furrowed in puzzlement. “You don’t have to do this, Mordred. We have options.”

The look Mordred shot him was surprisingly serious. “I’m sure, Merlin. There are many debts that I owe in my life, and perhaps now I can repay some of them.”

Arthur nodded, breaking Merlin’s silence. “You may be a druid, but you have the bearing of a nobleman,” he noted. “Good luck, Mordred.” Mordred nodded silently in acknowledgment, turning and striding towards the growing commotion of the druids. Arthur and Merlin ran in the opposite direction, Merlin sparing a glance back at his erstwhile companion. He hadn’t been lying when he’d said they had options, but now was neither the time nor the place to reveal his magic to Arthur.

The pair scrambled up the rocky pathway, breathlessly glancing over their shoulders, but true to Mordred’s word, their pursuers were distracted. It wasn’t long before Arthur and Merlin made it up to where Mordred’s band was waiting.

“Not more druids,” Arthur muttered, automatically reaching for his absent sword.

“No need for that,” interjected Gaius as he rode to the front of the gathering. “Welcome back, sire.”

Arthur gaped at the former physician, momentarily at a loss for words. “Gaius?”

The old man turned his attention to Merlin. “Is Mordred returning?” He asked, worry creasing his brow. Merlin shook his head.

“He said he had debts to repay,” he replied, and hopped onto his horse. “We’d best get moving.” Gaius nodded somberly, casting a glance backwards at the receding tomb spire.

Meanwhile, Mordred leaned jauntily on the tunnel entrance, feigning surprise as the druids surrounded him.

“You’re supposed to be dead!” Myror shouted, pointing at Mordred in disbelief.

Mordred raised his eyebrows, then looked down at himself as if to check. “Am I not?”

“You’re about to be,” Alvarr snarled, pushing his way to the front of the group. “You all remember Dragonlord Mordred, don’t you?” He pronounced the title mockingly, causing the druids to laugh. “Kill him.”

All around Mordred, fireballs flared to life, and blades scraped their scabbards as they were drawn. However, Mordred remained nonchalant.

“The boy’s blood didn’t work, did it?” He innocently asked. Alvarr held up a cautioning hand, silently ordering his followers to stand down.

“You know whose blood we need,” he said, a knowing smirk appearing on his lips. Mordred returned it straight back at him.

“I know whose blood you need.”

 

~M~

 

Arthur, Merlin, and their companions rode deep into the forest. Eventually, Gaius called a halt, and the druids settled down to camp for the night. Seating himself by the fire, Arthur picked at the torn sleeve around his wound, while Merlin stirred a pot of stew nearby. Catching the edge of the cut, Arthur let out a small hiss of pain.

“Here, let me,” Merlin offered, removing his neckerchief and tying it around Arthur’s forearm as an impromptu bandage. The prince grimaced as the callouses from Merlin’s fingers rubbed over the tender skin.

“Sorry, servant’s hands.” Merlin huffed apologetically. “I know they’re rough.”

“No, it’s-it’s fine,” replied Arthur automatically, before clamping his mouth shut. Merlin finished tying the improvised bandage, running his hands over Arthur’s arm lightly. Even though he was done, he kept stroking Arthur. The prince let his eyes follow Merlin’s fingertips in their rhythmic motion, reaching out to lay his own hand over Merlin’s. The manservant froze, holding his breath, but Arthur stroked his thumb over Merlin’s knuckles tenderly.

“Arthur,” Merlin whispered, starting to pull away, but Arthur held onto his hand. They leaned closer, Merlin’s fingers running up Arthur’s arm and towards his chest. Their faces were only inches away now, breaths mingling in the evening air. Arthur kept one hand over Merlin’s, the other running over his bicep. Meanwhile, Merlin trailed his fingers across the laces on Arthur’s tunic, but paused when he felt the cold chain under his fingertips.

Arthur leaned back, pulling the necklace out from underneath his shirt. “It’s alright,” he said.  “It’s yours, after all.” 

Merlin took it in his hands, running his fingers over the metal reverently.

“I thought I lost this the day they rescued me,” he whispered, voice full of awe. He looked sharply at Arthur. “Why did you have it?”

Arthur hung his head, guilt clenching his stomach. “I was afraid that you had something to do with druids,” he muttered. “And if my father found out, he would’ve killed you. I didn’t want that.”

Merlin’s fist closed around the fragment, knuckles whitening as he let the edges dig into his palm. “It wasn’t your blood they needed,” he whispered, eyes closing as he let his head drop.

“They said they needed the blood of a dragonlord,” Arthur added, realization finally dawning on him. “I told them my name was Emrys, and they spared me.” Arthur stood up, towering over Merlin. His heart was still pumping from his near-kiss with Merlin, but the signs were too clear for him to ignore. Suspicion churned Arthur’s stomach as he stared at the man he hadn’t even realized he’d loved until now.

“Merlin,” Arthur started, but the manservant avoided his gaze. “Merlin, look at me.” Merlin obeyed, clear blue eyes brimming with tears. “Do you have magic?”

“This isn’t how I wanted this to be,” Merlin sniffled. “I was going to tell you, I just — ”

“Just what?” Bile rose in Arthur’s throat as he stared at the man he thought he knew. “Just didn’t want to tell me you had magic?  _ Hello, I’m Merlin and I’m a sorcerer _ ,” he mimicked, his tone bitter. “ _ Please, allow me to continue being a servant to the prince of Camelot _ !”

“Arthur, stop,” Merlin begged, tears spilling unashamedly down his cheeks. “I wanted to tell you so many times, but I couldn’t, I just couldn’t!”  _ It wasn’t even the only thing I couldn’t tell you _ , he added silently.

“I will say, you did an excellent job of hiding it.” Arthur continued his tirade, letting the anger pour out of him from a bottomless pit in his stomach to hide his own hurt. “I knew you had ties to the druids when we found you in Essetir, but I hoped, I  _ prayed _ that you didn’t have magic. Because if you did, and you never told me, then by definition that makes you a traitor!”

Merlin could no longer form words, his shoulders shaking as he tried to hold in his sobs.

“Leave, Merlin,” Arthur commanded, exhaustion taking over him. “Don’t come back to Camelot, or you’ll be burned at the stake. For both of our sakes, I hope that we never meet again.” Minutes ago, he was ready to laugh with Merlin once again, but now, the mere sight of him cut Arthur to the very quick. It wasn’t Merlin’s magic that hurt Arthur - it was the fact that he had never trusted Arthur with his secret, that he had concealed something so large when he thought they shared everything. Betrayal and hopelessness filled Merlin’s eyes as he mounted his horse, looking back at Arthur as he galloped away. However, Arthur quickly turned his head away, something uncomfortably like guilt gnawing at his stomach.  _ Merlin was a traitor _ , he reminded himself, trying to rationalize the decision he had just made.  _ Father would’ve had him killed. It’s for his own good. _


	6. The Dragons Race

Mordred shrugged his shoulder out of Nimueh’s grasp as he stood before Alvarr, his hands shackled with cold iron once more as he waited for the chieftain to respond to his proposal. It was a long shot, but it was the best plan he could think of given the press for time. 

“ _ So _ ,” Alvarr mused, pacing up and down in front of Mordred. “You want  _ me _ to hand over command of Kilgharrah to  _ you _ , let you fly off to who knows where looking for the boy, and expect you to return with him safely in tow?”

“Oh no,” Mordred replied, manacles clanking as he gestured for Alvarr to calm down. “I want you to return command of what is rightfully  _ my _ dragon, fly off leaving  _ you _ who knows where looking for the boy, and as I leave, I’ll have Kilgharrah incinerate your pitiful excuse for a camp, just for laughs.” He smiled brightly at the other druid, who snorted in annoyance.

“But that still leaves the small problem of me on the ground, you riding  _ my _ dragon, and nothing but your word that the boy’s the one we need,” countered Alvarr.

“Well,” Mordred replied thoughtfully, “Of the two of us, I’m not the one who is an oathbreaker, so therefore my word is trustworthy. Fair?”

Alvarr merely rolled his eyes. Meanwhile, Mordred perched on a nearby tree stump, shackled hands hanging by his legs.

“Although, I suppose I should be thanking you,” he mused. Alvarr looked up curiously, a sardonic eyebrow raised.

“If you hadn’t chained me to that tree and left me to rot, I’d be cursed, same as you.” Mordred grinned. “Destiny works in mysterious ways, does it not?” Letting out a humourless chuckle, Alvarr turned to abandon his prisoner. As he did, Nimueh strode over to him.

“We’ve located the key,” she said. “It’s heading west, away from the tomb.”

Alvarr nodded in acknowledgment. “You and I take the beast,” he ordered. “Send the rest on horses. It can’t have gotten far.” As he moved towards Kilgharrah, Mordred hopped off the stump and blocked his way.

“If I might suggest, Alvarr,” he started, continuing to block Alvarr as the druid chieftain tried to move around him. “Send me out with a white flag. I’ll negotiate the return of the key, and then everyone can go on their merry way.”

Alvarr shook his head, a smirk appearing on his face. “You’re entirely too trusting, Mordred,” he said, clapping the younger druid on the shoulder. “That’s what lost you Kilgharrah in the first place.” Mordred’s grin disappeared.

“Tie him to a leg,” Alvarr commanded. “We can always use him as a hostage if need be.” Alvarr was lucky that Mordred could not channel his magic through his eyes, for the glare that he gave Alvarr would have killed him on the spot. Even as his shackles were looped around Kilgharrah’s foreleg, the druid kept up his murderous stare, never once breaking eye contact with Alvarr. Under Alvarr’s command, Kilgharrah launched into the sky, letting out a roar as his hunt began.

Cerdan looked up to the sky as the dragon passed overhead, taking his son with him. He’d barely even seen Mordred since he had been recaptured — Edwin had kept Cerdan back, suspicion nestled deep in his eyes.

“Can’t have you setting him free,” the scarred druid had leered, and Cerdan was forced to agree. But he had waited ten years to see Mordred, so he could wait a few more hours to see his boy — now a man — again. 

It was true that Mordred had grown during their separation, Cerdan reflected wistfully. He’d inherited his mother’s raven locks and piercing blue eyes, but the straight nose and strong jaw were undeniably Cerdan’s - a thought that made the cursed druid’s heart clench painfully.  _ Just a few more hours _ , he reminded himself.  _ Then I will be free, and I can be with my son once again. _

 

~M~

 

Arthur sat staring into the campfire, head whirling with emotions as he tried to make sense of the last few minutes. First, his near-kiss with Merlin, then his subsequent realization of his betrayal — the whiplash was enough to send him reeling.  _ Was Merlin loyal, or wasn’t he? Did he love Arthur back, or didn’t he? _

“Where’s Merlin going?” Gaius inquired, walking over to Arthur and interrupting the prince’s thoughts. “He seemed quite upset.”

“Merlin’s a sorcerer, Gaius,” Arthur said, voice hollow. When Gaius said nothing, the prince looked up, watching for any reaction. However, instead of anger or betrayal, the old man’s face was only marked with sorrow. It didn’t take long for Arthur to figure out why.

“You knew.”

“Yes, I knew.” Gaius nodded his head slowly. “Not long after I was exiled for my sympathy towards druids, Merlin wrote to me. He was horrified, Arthur, simply horrified of the potential for evil he saw in himself.”

Arthur could imagine a young Merlin writing frantically, inked words running together as tears trickled down his face and splattered onto the page. “What did you say?” He asked in spite of himself.

“I told him that magic was not evil in itself, that it is the user and the user alone who determines their actions. Some have the potential for great destruction, others for good. Merlin is a good man, Arthur. He’s saved your life, and even your father’s, more times than I can count.”

Arthur thought back to the various assassination attempts he and Uther had survived over the years, all seemingly thwarted at the last minute by sheer luck. But the wind could only change the flight of an arrow so many times, after all.

He shook his head defiantly, but he knew that in his heart of hearts, Gaius was right. How could Merlin have told him? Arthur would have reacted the same as he did now, betrayed and angry. In Camelot, Merlin would have been thrown in the dungeons, then burned at the stake the next morning. Keeping his magic secret was the only way he could stay alive. Besides, Merlin had never shown him anything other than complete loyalty – not all of it could have been an act.

Arthur’s stomach dropped sickeningly as he realized the consequences of his rash decision. Merlin was his most loyal friend, his greatest asset, and Arthur had exiled him on pain of death. His hand sought out the fragment for its comforting touch, but found only the untied laces of his tunic.

“Merlin has the key!” He gasped. Gaius’s face darkened, gnawing at his lip as he processed the news.

“We need to find him before Alvarr does,” he said after a long silence. “They can track the pieces, like bloodhounds on a scent. Chances are they’re on his tail already. Alvarr will have taken off on Kilgharrah as an advance scout, but the rest will be following him.”

“Can you command Aithusa?” Arthur asked, pacing around the fire. “She’s far smaller than Kilgharrah – chances are, she’s the faster one.” Gaius nodded, mulling the plan over.

“It’ll be close, but there is a chance we could overtake them. Freya knows the most words; she can command Aithusa for long enough that we may yet succeed.”

Arthur rubbed his hands together. “Well, it’s the best chance we’ve got,” he declared.  “Saddle the horses. Freya and I will ride on Aithusa.” Gaius nodded, heading off to inform the remaining druids of the plan. Meanwhile, Arthur strode over to Aithusa, gently stroking her wing.

“I don’t know if you can understand me,” he said, tone soothing. He kept it low and soft, like he was talking to his horse. “But Merlin’s in trouble, and I need your help. I know that my father hasn’t been good to you.” Arthur hung his head, running his fingers over the dragon’s iron muzzle. “Merlin - he’s a good man, though. He doesn’t want to see you hurt. And when this is all over, who knows? Maybe I’ll tell my father you broke your restraints and couldn’t be recaptured.”

Arthur’s fingers went unbidden to the clasp that belted Aithusa’s mouth shut, toying with the metal.  _ Every second counts _ , he thought to himself,  _ and we will need every advantage we can get _ . Without the weight of her iron muzzle, Aithusa could fly faster than ever before. He began to unbuckle the straps, grunting as the weight of the cold iron muzzle fell on him.

“What are you doing?” Freya shrieked as she ran over to Arthur and Aithusa. “I can’t control her without those!”

“We won’t need to,” Arthur replied, letting the last buckle go. The muzzle dropped to the ground with a clang as Aithusa reared up, shaking her head with a screech. “She’s going to work with us, right, Aithusa?”

“Quite right, Prince Arthur,” the dragon replied, landing back on all fours. “I must say, it is a pleasant surprise to see how different you are from your father.”

Arthur and Freya gaped at the dragon, completely unable to believe their ears.

“You can talk,” Freya finally said. “I didn’t know dragons could talk.”

“I would like to see if you could talk with an iron muzzle around your mouth,” Aithusa replied archly. Arthur raised his eyebrows, but decided it would be wisest not to comment.

“Be that as it may,” Aithusa continued, “It is my duty as a dragon to aid you in rescuing Merlin, and as such, I shall aid you to the best of my abilities. You need not force me to obey your will, young Freya.”

Freya nodded, approaching Aithusa to mount her. Arthur looked into the sky, eyes scanning the clouds for Kilgharrah. Sure enough, far to the west, he could see the green silhouette that had haunted his dreams for ten years.

“That way,” he said, and pointed towards the monstrous dragon. “Merlin’s that way.” Freya pulled herself up onto Aithusa’s haunch, extending a hand for Arthur to grab on to. They settled between the spines of Aithusa’s back, just behind the wings.

“ _ Petó, Aithusa, petó! _ ” Freya urged, and with a roar, the dragon climbed into the sky. Arthur’s eyes widened as the trees fell away, passing beneath them in a river of green. Any other day, he would’ve thrown his arms into the air and enjoyed himself, but far too much was at stake for him to grow reckless. He pressed himself lower to the dragon, wind rippling his hair as they drew nearer to their quarry.

 

~M~

 

Merlin rode hard, urging his mount forward as they raced through the trees. Branches whipped at his face and arms, but trying to protect himself would only slow him down. He spared a glance behind his back, eyes widening as he saw Kilgharrah’s wings steadily beating in the distance. The fragment jangled on its chain around his neck, and Merlin clutched at it with one hand, hoping for anything that might shield it from his pursuers. However, he knew it was a futile gesture, and his hope started to flicker.

Arthur scanned the field below, searching desperately for any signs of Merlin.

“Can’t you talk to him?” He yelled to Freya over the wind. “I thought druids had a telepathic link!”

“If we talk, Alvarr can hear it,” Freya called back. “We’d lose any advantage we would gain!”

Arthur leaned back, discouraged that his plan wouldn’t work. However, a speck caught his eye, and examining it closer, he determined it to be a horse and rider. There were only two reasons somebody would ride that fast — they were fleeing, or they had an important message. Since the rider had no banner, they must be running from someone or something.

“There!” Arthur pointed at the dot, still heading westward. “It’s Merlin!” Aithusa wheeled about, tracking the warlock, but as she did, an unearthly growl sounded from nearby.

Freya cursed. “They’ve found him too!” Suddenly, the rider changed direction, heading south.

“I don’t understand!” Freya cried in frustration. “That won’t help!”

“No, wait!” Arthur grabbed Freya’s arm, gesturing for her to look. “He’s heading for the woods!” Indeed, there was a forest beginning to rise to the south. “Aithusa’s smaller, we can follow him in while Kilgharrah gets caught!”

Freya grinned, baring her teeth into the wind. “I knew there was a reason Céo liked him!” She patted Aithusa’s neck, getting the dragon’s attention. “Think you can make it through?” Aithusa dipped her head once, streamlining her wings as she dove towards the forest.

 

~M~

 

“He’s trying to lose us!” Alvarr howled. “ _ Take her down! _ ” Kilgharrah shook once, a deep rumble in his belly as he prepared to unleash a torrent of fire.

“Kilgharrah, no!” Mordred cried from where he was still tied to the dragon’s leg. “You can’t kill her, you  _ can’t _ !” But with Alvarr still in control, his efforts were useless. Small spurts of fire emerged from between Kilgharrah’s teeth as he shot a fireball at Aithusa. However, the smaller dragon dodged the attack, trees splintering next to her as Arthur and Freya ducked. Aithusa wound through the forest, branches whipping at her wings. 

“Again!” Alvarr shouted, pointing at the dragon before him. They were practically on top of Merlin now, who still was riding frantically through the woods. Kilgharrah released another gout of fire, forcing Aithusa to swerve wildly to avoid it. A particularly large branch snagged the fragile skin between Aithusa’s wings, tearing a hole straight through it. She shrieked, Arthur and Freya clinging on for dear life as she spiralled out of control.

“Hold on!” Arthur cried, grabbing Freya and throwing her clear of the nearest trees. They crashed to the ground, rolling across rocks and branches with a grunt. Freya scrambled towards the downed dragon frantically, pushing aside sticks and rocks to get to her. Aithusa’s sides heaved, eyes wide with pain and fear.

“No, no, no, no!” wailed Freya, pressing herself to Aithusa’s flank. However, she was ripped away from the wounded dragon by Morgause, shrieking as the cursed druidess wrestled her into iron manacles. The downed dragon was truly a pitiful sight, once-magnificent wings tattered and scorched, the smell of burning flesh sizzling upwards into the sky.

Arthur whipped his head around desperately as he searched for Merlin, hoping a scrap of red would catch his eye the way it had ten years ago. 

“Merlin!” he cried. “Merlin, where are you?!” But the horse and rider were nowhere to be seen. A roar and a crash drew his attention to the sky, where Kilgharrah descended through the woods to land before him.

“Damn Pendragons and your lunacy!” Mordred ranted from where he was tied to the dragon’s foreleg. “I nobly sacrificed myself for you, and this is what I get?! Next time, I’ll let you and your servant get ripped to shreds!”

“You might just get your wish,” Alvarr chuckled darkly, and grabbed Arthur’s arms. He shackled them behind the prince’s back, then to a long chain, where Mordred’s companions were already joined in line. They glared sullenly at their captors, unable to summon the magic they so clearly wished to use. 

“At least Merlin got away,” Gaius whispered, before Ruadan yanked on his chains harshly. Arthur nodded, a faint hope flickering in his chest. Merlin had been riding like the wind, and it was unlikely that —

“Let Arthur go!” Merlin cried, jumping into view and brandishing a sword.

“Oh, this can’t get any worse,” groaned Mordred, and let his head thud backwards onto Kilgharrah’s scaly leg.

Several pairs of eyes flared golden as the druids prepared to disintegrate Merlin, but Alvarr held up a warning hand. “What’s your brilliant plan?” He sneered. Merlin lifted his chin defiantly, sword still grasped firmly in his hand. 

“Arthur goes free,” he repeated.

“Or what?” Alvarr’s smirk was decidedly triumphant. “You’ll kill us? With a  _ sword _ ? We can’t die, boy.” His companions laughed cruelly in agreement.

“You can’t,” Merlin conceded, “but I can.” He placed the blade across his neck, edge pressed into the pale flesh. Arthur gasped, instinctively lunging forward, but his chains quickly drew him up short. Merlin’s eyes flickered to him, but the manservant did not flinch. 

“Now let Arthur go,” Merlin threatened, “or I’ll spill every last drop of blood I have on the ground.”

Alvarr’s eyes narrowed, trying to identify Merlin. “Who are you?”

“Nobody,” Mordred blurted. “Some crazy servant that followed me here. Don’t even know why he’s allowed to be one, he’s rubbish at cooking — ”

“My name is Merlin Emrys!” shouted Merlin, interrupting Mordred’s desperate ramblings. “My father was Balinor Emrys, the last Dragonlord. His power lives on in me!”

Edwin growled low in his throat, ready to lunge at Merlin, but Morgause whacked him upside the head.

“Name your terms, Emrys,” Alvarr finally said, eyes filled with greed.

“Release Arthur!”

Alvarr rolled his eyes. “Yes, we know that one.” Mordred raised his eyebrows significantly at Merlin in a  _ what about me _ ? gesture. 

“And Mordred’s companions,” Merlin added. “They’re not to be harmed.” Mordred continued to glare at Merlin, but the manservant made no other demands.  Alvarr stepped closer to Merlin, extending a hand with an oily grin.

“Agreed.”

Merlin allowed his hands to be shackled, avoiding Arthur’s anguished gaze as he did so.

“Merlin,” Arthur began, but Gaius gave him a warning shake of the head. Arthur knew he had much to apologize for, but he couldn’t even fathom how to begin. The sting of Merlin’s secrets was still too fresh in his mind, and so Arthur consigned himself to silence. Delicately, almost reverently, Alvarr removed the shard from its chain around Merlin’s neck, dangling it from his hand. It glinted innocently in the sunlight, an unassuming piece of metal. Never in his life could Arthur have guessed that it would bear such large consequences.

Arthur held out his hands to be unshackled, and to his surprise, Alvarr unlocked his manacles. With a shove, he pushed Arthur away from the line of captives, sending the prince stumbling.

“There you are,” the druid said mockingly. “You’re free to go.”

“But what about food and water?” Merlin protested, shouldering his way through the line of captives. “The nearest village is a week’s ride away!”

“That was never part of our agreement, therefore I cannot act on it. Nor can I free your companions, as you asked only that they not be harmed,” came Alvarr’s smug reply. “Bring Mordred forward!”

Myror dragged his former leader towards Alvarr and threw him on the ground. Mordred lifted his head slowly, hatred burning deeper in his eyes than any fire Kilgharrah could make.

“Mordred, my friend,” Alvarr said conversationally, grabbing Mordred’s hair and dragging his head upwards. “Did you notice? This is the same little neck of the woods where we left you to rot ten years ago.”

“I did notice,” Mordred replied through gritted teeth.

“Then you know what’s going to happen next.” 

Mordred did not resist as Ruadan and Edwin shoved him against the tree, iron chains looping around him as they secured him to a massive oak. His face was white with anger, eyes cold and murderous as he stared at Alvarr unblinkingly. Instinctively, Arthur moved over to him, the pair watching as the druids galloped away, Merlin stumbling behind them.

“A fine mess your servant’s gotten us into,” Mordred said casually, causing Arthur to whip around to face him. Despite being shackled to a tree, Mordred seemed completely unconcerned.

“We have to follow them!” Arthur exclaimed, pulling himself up a sturdy oak with a grunt. As he reached the top of the canopy, he could barely make out Kilgharrah’s silhouette, black against the white clouds. 

“And what, get ourselves incinerated for the trouble?” Mordred rolled his eyes. “Trust me, wait for a day or two.”

“Are you not concerned with the fact that we have no food or water? Or that you’re tied to a tree, and I have no weapons?!” Arthur was decidedly fed up with Mordred’s continued show of nonchalance. He dropped down from the tree and pointed an accusing finger at the druid. “You’ve double-crossed me more times than I can count! Why should I trust  _ anything _ you say?”

“Because I know how to get out of here.”

That stopped Arthur dead in his tracks. He eyed Mordred suspiciously, but his survival instincts won out. “All right,” he said warily. “How do we escape?”

“See that mark on the ash tree over there?” Mordred jerked his head to the left, and Arthur followed his gaze. He moved closer to inspect it, running his fingers along the carved mark. To the untrained eye, it would look like a random gash, but its smooth edges and rounded curve led Arthur to suspect otherwise.

“It’s a smuggler’s mark,” Mordred explained. “It means it’s safe to set up camp here. If we wait long enough, there’s bound to be a caravan passing through.”

“How did you know it was here?” Arthur wondered aloud.

Mordred grinned. “It’s how I escaped last time.”

“So, we just wait here?” Arthur gestured helplessly at the vast expanse of woods. “It could be weeks!”

“If you’re so impatient, your Princeliness, there’s a stream about a quarter league to the west.” Mordred jerked his head that way. “We won’t die any time soon. This is a busy path.”

Arthur glared at the druid and started rummaging through Mordred’s pack. It was surprisingly full for being so light, and Arthur wondered if it had been enchanted. He pulled out Mordred’s small crossbow, only for the druid to breathe in sharply.

“Don’t touch that,” Mordred growled. “That is not for idle hunting,  _ boy _ .” Arthur was about to make a retort when he looked at Mordred’s face. All of his usual sarcastic wit was gone, replaced by complete and utter seriousness. Arthur had seen that look before in battle. It was the look of a man so desperate that he would cut off his own arm, and once Mordred got free, Arthur knew that nothing in the world could stop him from wiping Arthur off the face of the earth. He slowly put the crossbow back down, instead pulling out a waterskin. Mordred nodded, the tension seeping from his face. 

After roughly twenty minutes of walking, Arthur reached a small stream that wound its way through the forest, as Mordred had predicted. He knelt down and cautiously took a sip, making a face. The water was silty but cold, and Arthur filled the waterskin, placing his sleeve over the opening to act as a filter.

Walking back to Mordred’s improvised prison allowed Arthur to calm himself, and start rationally planning a course of action. With Merlin captured and Aithusa crippled, he did not have any resources available other than his own wits. Arthur and Mordred could not rescue Merlin alone they needed help.

To Arthur’s mild surprise, Mordred was still chained to the oak when he returned. Arthur took another pull from the waterskin, before holding it out to Mordred. The druid looked at the offered drink sourly, but allowed Arthur to tilt the waterskin forward so he could drink. Wiping his mouth, Arthur moved to a tree opposite Mordred and sat down against it, staring into the forest as they waited for rescue. Eventually, Arthur began to nod off, head resting against the rough bark.


	7. Rescues

The beat of hooves on soil awoke Arthur, and he scrambled to his feet. Weaving in between the trees was a small caravan carrying a man and a woman. Arthur ran over to the caravan, grabbing at the horse’s reins. 

“Please, I need your help,” he said, and raised his hands to show he was unarmed. “My — uh, friend and I, we were betrayed. He’s chained to a tree, and both of us are without food and weapons.”

The man examined Arthur critically, a single eyebrow raised. Meanwhile, the woman snorted and gracefully jumped off her seat. 

“Small wonder you were betrayed,” she remarked. “You mean to say you can’t pick a lock?” Arthur shook his head, irritated. 

“It could be an ambush, Isolde,” the man warned. 

“Does this one look like he knows how to set a trap?” Isolde replied. Arthur scowled at her.

“On my honor, I swear that you will be unharmed, and generously rewarded for your assistance.” Arthur placed a hand on his chest.

“Oho, this one talks fancy!” laughed the man, and Arthur mentally cursed himself for falling into the old habits he was raised with. 

“Stay with the caravan, Tristan,” Isolde instructed. “I’ll help our young lord here.” She swung her braid over her shoulder, nodding at Arthur to lead the way. It wasn’t long before they came across Mordred, who was pulling against his shackles. 

“About bloody time,” Mordred growled as he pressed himself back against the tree. Isolde inspected the lock, using the slack Mordred had created to pull it forward. She hummed slightly, pulling a series of long tools from her boot as she squatted down to pick the lock. Meanwhile, Arthur glanced warily at where the caravan was still waiting. Tristan was watching them like a hawk, and Arthur waved at him to indicate everything was fine. 

With a triumphant grunt, Isolde cracked the last part of the lock, chains falling limply to the ground like a dead serpent. Mordred stretched his arms above his head, breathing deeply. 

“You know, no matter how many times you feel it, there’s something remarkably refreshing about being freed,” he remarked conversationally.

“Yes, thank you,” Arthur nodded curtly in Isolde’s direction. “Can we go now?”

“You promised a reward,” the smuggler interrupted. “Where is it?”

“At the Tomb of Ashkanar,” Mordred said pleasantly. Arthur whipped his head around, incredulous.  _ The Tomb? _ he mouthed, but Mordred only nodded slightly. 

“Ashkanar wasn’t just buried with a dragon egg,” continued Mordred. “He was buried with all of the riches he had plundered during his reign, and believe me, he was  _ very  _ rich.”

Isolde raised an eyebrow. “And what about the traps?”

“There’s a back door by an outcrop on the western side, near a downed ash. You should be able to find it easily,” Mordred said smoothly. “Now, there is a chance that there may be — other visitors, but they have no interest in the gold. Trust me.”

“How do I know that you’re good for your word?”

Mordred pulled aside the edge of his tunic to reveal his triskelion tattoo. “Mordred Céo never breaks his word.”

Isolde’s eyes widened briefly, but she nodded in understanding. “We’ll camp here for the night; it’s starting to get late, and I don’t want to push the horse.” Her eyes flickered upwards to where the sun was already starting to set. Arthur’s eyes followed, and anxiety clenched at his gut. Merlin wouldn’t be at the tomb yet, but he knew that he was running out of time. Arthur needed a plan, and fast.

 

~M~

 

Merlin and his comrades sat morosely around a campfire, huddled together as protection from their captors. Cerdan approached Merlin, holding out a bowl of stew. Merlin’s shackles clanked as he warily took it, but Cerdan nodded encouragingly, and Merlin took a bite.

“You look just like him, you know,” Cerdan said softly. Merlin looked up at the older druid, eyes wide.

“You knew my father?”

“Balinor Emrys was a good man,” Cerdan, said, dipping his head. “He didn’t approve of what Alvarr did to my son — he said it was wrong for us to turn on our own like that. When he refused to bend Kilgharrah to his will, Alvarr walled him up in a cave. We never saw him again.”

Merlin’s eyes glistened in the firelight, but his voice stayed strong. “Your son — Mordred?”

Cerdan nodded. “What’s he like?”

“He’s driven.” Merlin considered his words carefully. “He believes that he has a reason for what he does. He’s not above breaking the rules, but he has good morals. You must’ve raised him well.”

“Aye,” Cerdan replied, a faint smile on his face. “For a wandering band of druids, we can’t have done too badly.”

The two of them shared a small chuckle, firelight casting deep shadows around Cerdan’s eyes. “You’d best rest,” he said finally. “I won’t lie; tomorrow may very well be your last day. But if I know my son, he has a plan. Have faith, Merlin.”

Merlin nodded gratefully, and laid down as best his shackles would allow him. Despite his dire situation, Cerdan’s words had given him hope, and the fire of determination had rekindled itself under Merlin’s breastbone. When he had given himself up for Arthur, he had not expected any reward, or indeed even to survive. But now, he understood Mordred’s relentless drive, and with Arthur out of harm’s way, Merlin was ready to claw, kick, and bite his way to victory if need be.

 

~M~

 

Isolde whooped as Mordred and Arthur chugged their flagons of ale, neither man stopping for breath. Mordred triumphantly slammed his flagon on the ground just before Arthur, raising his arms in triumph. Arthur groaned good-naturedly, and pushed Mordred off his perch on a fallen tree. The druid fell backwards, arms flailing as he tried to keep his balance. Gasping with laughter, Arthur stomped his feet on the ground until Mordred grabbed the back of his tunic and pulled him off the log as well. 

Isolde scoffed and rolled her eyes, before slugging back her own flagon quicker than anyone else. They had been sitting around the campfire indulging in some of the smuggler’s cargo, when Arthur had suggested a drinking contest. Tristan had lost three rounds ago, and was currently curled up on the seat of the caravan dozing off. Meanwhile, Isolde staggered to her feet, mumbling something about needing a piss, leaving Mordred and Arthur still lying on the ground.

“I wish it could always be like this,” Arthur slurred, arms spread-eagle against the dirt. Mordred attempted to sit up, only to fall back as the forest tilted around him.

“Who says it can’t be?” He raised a finger shrewdly, before bringing it closer to his face. Arthur giggled as Mordred went cross-eyed examining it.

“You don’t have to go back,” Mordred said, shaking his head to clear it. He propped himself up on his elbows, turning to face Arthur. “Run wild, run free. Forget your resbonsi-responsilit-responsibilities.”

“For now,” Arthur conceded, before sitting up and filling both of their flagons. “One more?”

“One more,” agreed Mordred, throwing his head back to drink. Arthur raised his flagon, but slowly lowered it as Mordred kept chugging, leaning backwards until his was passed out on the ground. Pushing himself to his feet, Arthur pulled out the waterskin he’d been funneling his ale into, carefully emptying it back into the casket. He stooped down, grabbing a branch from the fire, and walked off into the night. He had work to do.


	8. Planning the Attack

Mordred awoke to a pounding headache and a disgusting taste in his mouth. He vaguely remembered the drinking contest, but when he looked around, his competitors were nowhere to be found. Tristan and Isolde had packed up camp and left, and the only sign that Arthur had been there was the indents in the grass where he had sat.

Curious, Mordred staggered to his feet, looking at the trails in the grass. From the looks of things, Arthur had been dragging something heavy, and Mordred followed his trail. 

Suddenly, the smell of smoke hit him, and Mordred wrinkled his nose as the odor assaulted his sensitive head. He squinted up at the sky, spotting a plume of blackish-grey smoke wafting into the sky. Mordred rolled his eyes.  _ Trust a wet-behind-the-ears princeling to use green wood _ , he mentally griped.  _ And so much, too _ …

Mordred’s eyes widened as realization struck him, and he ran into the forest, his hangover forgotten. He sped into a small clearing, where Arthur had created a roaring bonfire out of various saplings.

“What are you doing?!” Mordred yelped, trying to extinguish the fire with a spell. However, the magic bounced backward, and Mordred was sent flying. Looking up, he noticed that Arthur had coiled the iron chains around the bonfire, therefore stopping anyone from interfering with it using magic.

“It’s a signal fire!” yelled Arthur over the roar of the blaze. “Any knights in the area will be looking for me, and they’re bound to see it!”

Mordred couldn’t argue with his logic; they were close to Camelot’s borders, and Arthur’s disappearance would warrant a kingdom-wide search. Sure enough, it was not long before a rumble echoed over the treetops, and in the distance a tiny silhouette of a dragon could be seen flying out from Camelot.

Confident, Arthur leaned back against a tree with his hands behind his head, raising an eyebrow at Mordred. 

“You’d best get going,” he noted. “As it still stands, all knights have orders to capture you on sight.”

Mordred winced as he realized that once again, Arthur was right. Wetting his lips with his tongue, Mordred looked to the sky and considered his options. It was a gamble, but a plan started to form in his mind. He nodded, and started off towards the forest.

“Safe travels,” the druid said, gathering his cloak around himself. “I’m going back to the Tomb.” Arthur’s face remained carefully composed, and he nodded.

“Good luck.”

Mordred nodded back in acknowledgment, before bending down and placing a hand on his boots. 

“ _ Ærende _ ,” he said, and a golden shimmer spread across the worn leather. Mordred ran into the woods, but his feet blurred and he sped away, as fast as a horse. Arthur blinked as he stared at where the druid had been.  _ Was there anything Mordred couldn’t enchant? _ He wondered. 

 

~M~

 

It was only an hour before Leomaris landed in the clearing, maroon wings stirring up leaves as he dropped to the ground. Tarald and Sir Leon hopped off his back, running over to Arthur.

“We thought you dead,” said Tarald, grasping Arthur’s arm firmly. Behind him, Leon practically beamed with joy. 

“It is very good to see you, sire,” he added.

Arthur nodded, grinning. “And good to see you both as well,” he said, not needing to fake the relief in his voice. He may not have been gone long, but being able to see his friends again was a welcome opportunity. 

The thought made his mind immediately go towards Merlin, and Arthur allowed his plan to continue.

“Merlin is being held hostage by druids,” he said, hoping his half-truth was believable. “They have a dragon, but their numbers are few, and they are otherwise occupied. With a small party, we could mount a stealth — ”

“No,” Tarald interrupted firmly. “My mission is to see your rescue and safe return, Arthur. Your father and Morgana have been both worried sick about you, and I have permission to engage only if absolutely necessary.” 

Arthur opened his mouth to protest, but Tarald cut him off once more. “I know how much Merlin means to you, but at the end of the day he is only a servant. You are a  _ prince _ , Arthur.” Leon looked between the two princes uneasily.

“If not for Merlin, do it to rid Camelot of the druids.” Arthur folded his arms adamantly. “They’re the ones who attacked Camelot and kidnapped me. It’s possible they may strike again.”

Tarald looked intrigued, but did not respond.

“Help me, and I’ll give you my blessing,” Arthur blurted, remembering his conversation with Tarald only days before. “If not, I’ll be forced to fight you for her honor.” Tarald stared at Arthur, surprised. The younger prince returned his gaze defiantly and stuck his chin out. Tarald may have been the smarter of the two, but Arthur had always been the better swordsman. Weighing his options, Tarald sighed.

“Very well, but you will remain camped with Leomaris, and will be under armed supervision at  _ all  _ times. Do I make myself clear?”

“No, you don’t understand,” Arthur protested. “There are traps, and the druids-” But Tarald dismissed him with a wave of his hand. Leon grabbed Arthur’s arm, keeping his face still.

“Come on, sire,” he said quietly. “Let’s have a physician look you over.”

Arthur let himself be led away, but he looked over his shoulder in the direction of the tomb. Even as he was being examined, Arthur’s mind was churning out increasingly desperate.  _ What would Mordred do _ ? He asked himself. Of course, he knew exactly what Mordred would do. But this time, he couldn’t do it alone.

After midday, Arthur, Lancelot, Percival, Gwaine, and Elyan were seated in a circle, playing cards. Having had a wash in the stream, his cuts bandaged, and dressed in a fresh red tunic, Arthur felt better than he had in days, but Merlin’s absence still gnawed at his mind.

“Percival, you miss Merlin, don’t you?” Arthur said, as conversationally as he could manage.

The burly knight looked at Arthur sideways. “Of course I do.”

“He’s in danger,” said Arthur flatly. “Tarald’s not going on a rescue mission, it’s only reconnaissance. Merlin will be dead before we even have a chance to save him.”

“Well, then what are we waiting for?” Gwaine abruptly stood up, scattering his cards everywhere. “He’s like a brother to all of us. Our scrawny, absent-minded little brother who has a knack for finding trouble.” The other three knights nodded in agreement.

“If Prince Tarald won’t rescue him, then we will,” added Lancelot.

“Why did they want him?” Elyan asked. “They could’ve asked your weight in gold for a ransom. Instead, they wanted Merlin.”

Arthur took a deep breath, gut churning unpleasantly. Would they be able to handle the truth, or would his loyal friends see him and Merlin as traitors?

“Merlin’s father was something called a Dragonlord,” Arthur said finally, as he glanced among his friends. “It’s somehow hereditary, and they need his blood to lift a curse and hatch a dragon egg.”

Gwaine blinked. “Oh, you didn’t know about the magic?”

“I-I — ” Arthur was completely flabbergasted. None of the knights seemed particularly bothered by his astounding revelation. “You knew Merlin had magic?”

“He’s saved all of our lives using it,” Lancelot said. “We swore ourselves to secrecy, so that he wouldn’t be punished.”

“We all assumed you knew as well, given how close you two are,” added Percival. 

Still at a loss for words, Arthur scrubbed a hand over his face. It seemed he was always the last person to know important things, and Merlin’s status as a sorcerer was no exception.

“Regardless,” he sighed, “If we don’t get Merlin back, we’ll be unleashing  _ another _ druid-controlled dragon on the Five Kingdoms, and Camelot will be their first target.”

Lancelot’s eyes grew dark with resolve. “We can’t let that happen.”

“Then we’re in agreement,” Arthur said. 

Gwaine half-raised his hand. “Very noble and all, but how are we going to rescue Merlin with just the five of us?”

A mischievous grin spread across Arthur’s face. “We’re going to steal a dragon.”

 

~M~

 

Mordred skidded to a halt at the tomb’s gate, wiping a faint sheen of perspiration from his brow. He was  _ never _ going to get used to those seven-league boots, no matter how much he practiced. Even with his rapid travel, the sun was beginning to set. It wouldn’t be long before the moon rose, and Alvarr would be able to complete the ritual. Steeling himself, Mordred walked through the scorched stone doors, ready to confront the treacherous druid one last time.

At the other end of the tomb, Nimueh dragged Merlin behind her, a rag forced into his mouth so he could not try and control Kilgharrah. Cerdan strode behind the captive Dragonlord, keeping pace with him.

“Don’t worry,” he soothed. “They just need a few drops of blood, and then they’ll probably let you go.”

Nimueh scoffed, overhearing their conversation. “Not a chance. He’s only half Dragonlord — we spill it all!”

Merlin’s eyes widened, and he looked over to Cerdan, horrified. The druid could only return his gaze, once more powerless to enact his morals as Merlin was dragged away.

 

~M~

 

As Mordred entered the antechamber, he saw Merlin bound and gagged in front of the dragon egg, the key already back in shards around him. Behind him stood Alvarr, obsidian knife lifted into the air as the druids chanted below. Mordred wound his way between them, shouting replacing stunned silence as they saw their former leader seemingly returned from the dead.

“You,” Alvarr gasped. “It’s not possible.”

Mordred raised a knowing finger. “Not  _ probable _ .” He made a show of looking around the tomb as everyone gaped at him. Cerdan rushed forward, but Edwin held him back.

“How did you escape?” Mordred’s father cried, relief plain on his face.

“You see, Alvarr,” replied Mordred, turning to face the chieftain, “when you left me to rot for a  _ second _ time, you forgot one important thing.”

“And what would that be?”

Mordred looked positively smug. “I’m Mordred Céo.”

“Well, I won’t be making that mistake again.” Alvarr rolled his eyes and lifted his knife to Merlin’s throat. The warlock struggled in his grasp, but he could not wrest himself away. Meanwhile, Mordred made a disapproving noise in the back of his throat.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he said casually.

Alvarr snorted. “No, I really think I want to do this.” He moved the knife closer to Merlin again.

“Your funeral.”

The words hung in the air for a long moment, pregnant with anticipation. Slowly, Alvarr lowered the knife, turning to fully face Mordred.

“And do tell,” he spat, “why shouldn’t I?”

“Because,” Mordred replied, leaning his hands on the altar, “right now, Camelot’s finest knights and their dragon are on their way to the Tomb, ready to strike. Stay cursed, and you can scythe them down like wheat in a field without losing a man.”

Merlin growled behind his gag, but Mordred ignored him. “So you’ll want to keep the dragon alive,” he continued, “but not even  _ you _ can control both of them. Let me take control of Leomaris, and I’ll follow your orders.” Mordred’s eyes shone. “Camelot wants me burned at the stake; why do I owe them any loyalty?”

Alvarr looked at his former leader warily. “You give me anything you plunder.”

“But of course!” Mordred smiled. “We are one family, after all.” He pulled back from the altar, turning towards the cursed druids. Merlin noticed a small gleam of gold in his sleeve, but made no indication he had seen it. 

“So,” concluded Mordred, “Have your men — ” Nimueh and Morgause glared at him. “ — Men  _ and _ women go out the gate, they do what they do best, and now we have two dragons.” 

Alvarr nodded, and spread his arms. “You heard Mordred!” he shouted. “Let’s take a walk!” 

This caused Mordred to look at him, puzzled. “Not out the gate?”


	9. Camelot Strikes Back

“I don’t like it,” Leon muttered, calming his horse. He sat with Tarald and most of the knights behind a rocky outcrop, the tomb cutting across the moon like a black sword. “It’s too quiet, sire.”

Tarald motioned for Leon to be quiet. “When they come out the gate, they’ll be too pleased with themselves to expect an attack. We’ll use the gate as a bottleneck, and then drop the nets on them.”

Leon nodded. The “nets” were Camelot’s secret weapon against magic attacks. Gwen had spent days drawing out ribbons of cold iron, before interweaving them with thick rope to form nets. Cast over a druid, they would render them unable to use their magic. As plans went, it was perfectly reasonable, but Leon still had his doubts.

“But why aren’t we using Leomaris, sire?” He protested. “A dragon on our side would present a substantial advantage, and if the druids have their own — ”

“I will  _ not _ risk Camelot’s last dragon on a hunch, Sir Leon,” responded Tarald crisply. “Should the need for reinforcements arise, we are more than capable of signaling for them.”

Their reinforcements, however, were currently in the midst of mutiny. Arthur and his companions tiptoed through the sleeping knights, stopping before Leomaris. The dragon looked down at them warily, the reins through his nose gleaming in the firelight. Raising a hand, Arthur stepped forward, and pressed it soothingly against the dragon’s face. With the other, he began to undo the straps that laced his muzzle shut.

“Are you mad?” Gwaine squawked, before Percival clapped a hand over his mouth. 

“They’re not vicious beasts,” replied Arthur, fiddling with a particularly stubborn buckle. “They’re intelligent - they can talk. Trust me, this isn’t the first time I’ve done this.”

“Indeed,” Leomaris rumbled when his mouth was free. “I can smell Aithusa on you.” The rest of the knights gaped soundlessly at the dragon, who shook himself once he was free.

“Fear not, good knights. I have no intentions of harming you, as you have proven yourselves to be honest and gentle. However, I must warn you: my loyalty lies with Emrys the Dragonlord alone, and should you endanger his life, I will not hesitate to aid him at all costs. Do I make myself clear?”

“Perfectly,” Arthur replied. “Merlin — your Dragonlord is in danger, and we need your help rescuing him. Will you help us?”

The dragon dipped his head once in assent, red scales almost black in the light of the fire. “I will carry you to your destination as swiftly as I can.”

Nodding in acknowledgment, Arthur placed a foot on Leomaris’s haunch before hoisting himself onto the dragon’s back, settling between two spines. He looked down at the knights, who were still frozen in shock and awe. 

“Coming?”

 

~M~

 

Far below Tarald and the knights, Edwin signalled for Myror and Ruadan to follow him, a ball of light glowing in his hand. They were within the catacombs of the tomb, only the occasional shaft of moonlight penetrating the rock tunnels. Above them, the druids could hear the muffled conversations of the knights, completely unaware of the imminent ambush.

“ _ Ábirsteaþ _ !” The druids shouted, and three large holes blew through the tunnel roof, shooting grass and rock everywhere. The horses reared and whinnied, throwing off their riders as they panicked from the sudden noise. Druids streamed out from the holes, white scales sprouting from their skin as the moonlight revealed their tortured forms.

“We’re under attack!” cried Tarald, bringing his horse in a circle. “Form a defensive phalanx, stick together!” But by now, most of the knights were engaged in one-on-one combat with the druids, unable to obey orders without being killed. Even so, the crimson-cloaked soldiers were falling before the druid’s magic, unable to pierce the scales that coated their enemies.

“What was that?” Elyan shouted, pointing with his free hand at the large craters the druid’s magic had created.

“Druids!” Arthur had to lean forward to make himself heard. “We’re here, Leomaris! Put us down!”

The dragon obeyed, grass fluttering outward in a circle as he landed. 

“Percival, Gwaine, stay with Leomaris,” Arthur instructed. “Lancelot, Elyan, look in the forest for any captives, and free them — they’re on our side, no matter what it looks like.” The two knights exchanged a look, then ran off into the forest. 

Drawing his sword, Arthur took a deep breath, steadying his nerves. Steel in hand, he entered the tomb’s back door, delving into its depths once more.

 

~M~

 

Alvarr lounged idly on a chair inside the antechamber, twirling his dagger in his hand. He and a few other druids had remained to guard Merlin, and prevent Mordred from acting on any impulses he might have.

“You know,” Alvarr remarked, “you’ve changed sides so many times in the last fortnight that I’ve lost count.” 

Mordred merely shrugged in response. “The only person’s side I’m on is my own.” Nonchalantly, he strolled towards where Merlin was still bound and glaring at him. “It’s the loyal ones you want to watch out for, because you never know if they’re prepared to do something... stupid.” Mordred shot Merlin a meaningful gaze, and the warlock’s eyes widened as he realized what Mordred was about to do.

With a flash of movement, Mordred slipped a knife between Merlin’s bonds, breaking them before Alvarr could react. Merlin dragged the gag out of his mouth, before sending out a small circular blast that knocked the cursed druids off their feet.

“Traitor!” Alvarr roared, lunging at Mordred. He raised his dagger, primal instinct to kill with his bare hands, overwhelming the logic to use magic first. Mordred grinned, brandishing his own knife in one hand and a fireball in the other, and ran to meet Alvarr.

Regaining their footing, the other druids made their way towards Merlin, eyes glowing as they prepared their spells. Merlin immediately retaliated, taking on two of them at a time, making the tomb shudder with his thunderous blasts of magic. However, he did not notice Morgause sneaking up behind him until it was too late, her hands wrapping around his throat like a snake. Merlin gasped and struggled, flailing as he wheezed for air. A savage grin split Morgause’s face as she continued to throttle him.

“I’ll teach you the meaning of pain,” she snarled, before the pommel of a sword came crashing down on the back of her head. She fell to the floor, temporarily stunned.

“How’s that for pain?” Arthur quipped, eyebrows raised.

“Arthur!” Merlin cried. He took a few quick steps forward before hesitating, eyes full of worry.

“I’m sorry, Merlin. I was an ass, and I shouldn’t have sent you away,” Arthur said frankly. 

Merlin let out a breathless chuckle. “Yeah, you were.” 

Over Merlin’s shoulder, Arthur spied movement as the downed druids began to stir. 

“We can talk about this later,” he added hastily, stepping to Merlin’s side and hefting his sword. “We’ve got bigger things to deal with.”

 

~M~

 

Elyan and Lancelot strode through the forest, straining to see in the filtered moonlight. Suddenly, they heard a sharp “ _ pssst! _ ” to their left. Running to investigate, they saw Gaius, Freya, and Mordred’s other companions, all chained in a circle to a tree. The two knights quickly set to work hacking the shackles apart, and once the druids were freed, they began to assist the others.

“It’s good to see you two,” remarked Gaius, rubbing his wrists. “I assume this is a rescue mission?”

“Of a sort,” Elyan replied. “Come on, let’s get you out of here.”

Suddenly, a horn blast rang through the night, clear above the noise of the forest.

“That’s the call for reinforcements!” Lancelot noted, his head jerking up. “We have to get back to the tomb!”

“Let us help.” Freya strode to the head of the small crowd, chin held high. “You may be from Camelot, but those druids are a danger to us all.”

Elyan raised an eyebrow at Lancelot, but nodded in agreement. “Let’s get going, then.”

Fireballs flickered to life across the group as twenty pairs of eyes burned yellow, and letting out a wordless cry, the druids charged out from the forest. Elyan and Lancelot unsheathed their swords and brandished them, following the druids with shouts of “For the love of Camelot!”

Running towards Leomaris, Freya hopped onto his back, Gwaine close behind her.

“You’ll need a tactician,” he said smoothly. “Allow me to humbly provide my services.”

Without looking backward, Freya placed a hand on Gwaine’s chest to prevent his further advances. “Less talking, more fighting!” 

Together they took off into the sky, Leomaris letting out a mighty roar. An answering call shook the forest, and with an upward explosion of trees, Kilgharrah emerged, Nimueh riding on his back. Teeth bared, the green dragon swooped at the red one, gouts of fire illuminating the night as the riders battled.

“I suppose I owe Gwaine a drink,” murmured Percival to nobody in particular.

 

~M~

 

Arthur parried away an ice spike with his sword, gritting his teeth as the impact jolted up his arm. Behind him, Merlin let loose a bolt of lightning, causing a druid to shriek and fall to the ground writhing. Standing with their backs together, the two young men spun in circles, Arthur providing cover as Merlin went on the offensive against the druids that encircled them. However, each time an attacker went down, he would get back up, ready to fight again.

“I have an idea!” Arthur cried, rolling out of the way of a magic blast. Running into an unlit area, he allowed a druid to follow him, until he reached a wooden door. Arthur picked up a spare sword, rusty from disuse, then sheltered behind the door until the druid was nearby. With a cry, Arthur stabbed through the door and into the druid, twisting the hilt so the crossbar lay perpendicular to the cut he had made. His scales having retreated back through his skin, the sword thrust through the druid’s ribcage with a nasty squelch. Merlin’s eyes glowed yellow, and the sword tip bent, effectively imprisoning their opponent. Despite his struggles, the iron in the sword kept him trapped and unable to use his magic. 

“One down, five to go,” Merlin said, a grim smile on his face.

Arthur flipped his sword in a circle.“Oh, is that all?” 

Their attention was diverted by a large explosion from the other end of the antechamber, where Mordred and Alvarr were still fighting. Sparks rained down as Mordred sent blast after blast at Alvarr, who stepped into a shaft of moonlight to avoid them.

“You can’t win, boy,” he snarled through his scales. “I’m immortal.”

Mordred let out an amused huff, despite the sweat dripping down his forehead. “Maybe, but you still hurt.” Whipping his head to the side, he telekinetically yanked Alvarr out of the moonlight before setting his clothes on fire. The cursed druid yelled as the flames licked his newly formed skin, but quickly extinguished them by rolling on the floor. He popped back to his feet, yelling “ _ Àþrówe! _ ”

Mordred fell to the ground, writhing in pain as Alvarr’s curse gripped him with its invisible hand. As he shook, Alvarr stood over him triumphantly, and kicked him in the side. Mordred was sent across the ground, and slumped into a beam of moonlight, his cloak covering him. Drawing his dagger, Alvarr advanced on the prone druid, pulling aside the cloak in order to deliver the killing blow. However, his expression quickly changed from deranged triumph to shock. 

Below him, Mordred looked up, his face having sprouted the same bone-white scales that disfigured Alvarr. Mordred grinned savagely, pulling a small golden fragment from his sleeve.

“It was a bit of a gamble,” he noted as he unsteadily rose to his feet. “But you know me, I could never resist shiny things.”

Arthur and Merlin gaped at the sight before them. Still standing in the shaft of light, every scale on Mordred’s face was outlined, his dark curls edged with silver. And yet there he was, grinning like a madman. 

Arthur’s brows furrowed. “He didn’t have those before.”

“The curse is still active,” Merlin murmured. “Mordred isn’t worthy of holding the triskelion, so now he has to bear the consequences as well.”

If Alvarr was already angry, now he was truly furious. Lunging at Mordred, his reptilian eyes glowed yellow as the two continued their magical battle.

 

~M~

 

“This isn’t working!” Gwaine yelled as Leomaris dodged yet another fireball. Neither dragon had managed to land a crippling blow for their entire battle, and were rapidly approaching a stalemate. 

“You don’t say!” Freya snapped back, wheeling the dragon in a wide circle. Kilgharrah followed, Nimueh hounding them at every opportunity. Leomaris was starting to pant, hot breaths steaming from his nostrils.

“Hang in there, Leo,” soothed Gwaine, patting the dragon’s flank. “Here, let me ride in front.”

With a good deal of squirming, Freya and Gwaine managed to exchange places. 

“We need to take off Kilgharrah’s rider,” he shouted. “Freya, do you know any long range spells?”

“A few, but she’s immortal, we can’t kill her!”

“Well,” Gwaine replied without any of his usual mirth. “A fall might slow her down.” Bending low to Leomaris, the knight spoke in his ear. 

“It’s risky,” the dragon replied, “If we are not successful, this could very well be the end of our battle.”

“We have to try,” urged Gwaine. “It’s our best shot.”

“Try what?” Freya asked as Leomaris pinwheeled through the sky. 

Gwaine took a deep breath. “You’re not going to like this.”

 

~M~

 

“Form a shield wall!” Tarald cried over the din of the battle. Knights and friendly druids were scattered across the rocky field, dead or dying from their wounds. Alvarr’s druids had formed a half-circle, and were starting to close in. Any further losses, and they would be trapped. Nothing Tarald had tried seemed to stop them, from decapitation to incineration. Even the druids caught in the nets were soon free, released by their cursed comrades.

A large explosion sent Tarald flying, and he fell to the ground, winded. Edwin towered over him, leering through pointed teeth. Tarald cast about for his sword, but it lay just out of reach. He looked up at the druid defiantly, unflinching in the face of his death. But just as Edwin raised his hand to strike, a fireball cannoned into his back, knocking him far away. Behind him stood Cerdan, panting as the flames flickered out in his hands.

“He kept me from my son,” the druid said, eyes steely. Tarald could only stare back in shock as Cerdan turned on his heel and ran towards the tomb, his mustard cloak flapping. And then the moment of stillness was over, and Tarald charged back into the fray.

 

~M~

 

Merlin let out a wordless cry of effort as he directed a blast of energy at his opponent, their attacks meeting between them in a contest of wills. At his side, Arthur systematically hacked and slashed, trying to inflict as much lasting damage as he could. The druids’ scales were tougher than any plate armor he’d encountered, but if he broke enough bones then perhaps they might stay down.

On the other side of the antechamber, Mordred and Alvarr continued to face off, Mordred ducking into the moonbeams when his magical shield could not suffice to protect him. Alvarr mirrored his movements, scales growing and dissolving within moments. It was an intricate dance, as the two combatants were evenly matched. With a well-aimed blast, Mordred knocked Alvarr back onto a pedestal.

“So what now,” the blonde observed cynically from where he was draped over the altar. “We two immortals battle until Kingdom Come?”

Mordred smirked. “Or you could surrender.” 

With renewed vigor, Alvarr sprung up, continuing his relentless assault on the younger druid. Fireball after fireball rained down on Mordred until he was crouched behind a golden shield, completely unable to retaliate. Arthur moved to help, but his way was blocked by Morgause and another druid. Raising his sword, Arthur prepared to fight back, but the two druids suddenly went down, a heavy net dragging them to the ground.

Cerdan rubbed his hands from where the iron in the net had burned him. “Never did like them,” he remarked, before drawing a protective shield around Arthur and Merlin.

“I see now where Mordred gets his wit,” noted Merlin, adding to Cerdan’s spell. 

“Mordred? He’s here?” Cerdan’s voice filled with hope.

Arthur pointed at where Mordred was crouched. “He’s cursed, too.” Indeed, when Mordred looked up from behind his shield, his pupils were slitted and his cheeks were white with scales. Cerdan gasped, but he did not falter as their gazes met. As they locked eyes, Mordred nodded slightly.

“He has a plan,” Cerdan breathed.

 

~M~

 

“Ready?” Gwaine cried.

“Ready!” Freya and Leomaris replied. With several mighty wingbeats, Leomaris pulled ahead of Kilgharrah so that they formed a line. Flaring his wings, the red dragon pushed with all of his strength and arched his neck, sending them upside down. Gwaine grabbed Freya with one hand and a spine with the other, providing the druid girl an anchor. From this angle, they were directly above Nimueh, Leomaris’s belly facing directly upwards as they curved through the night air.

“ _ Now _ !” he cried.

Still upside down, Freya shouted “ _ Arwan _ !” and threw her hands downward. A cluster of golden arrows appeared in the air around her, before zipping downwards towards Nimueh. The cursed druidess’s eyes widened in shock as the barbs pierced her clothing before continuing their trajectory, dragging her off Kilgharrah with a shriek. Her body plummeted to the ground, hitting with a nasty  _ thud _ . 

Leomaris completed his loop, Freya and Gwaine hanging on for dear life as the wind tugged at them with chilly fingers. Cautiously, they looked over Leomaris’s flank, where Kilgharrah was now circling aimlessly in the absence of his rider. 

“Get me closer!” Freya called, and Leomaris obeyed, matching Kilgharrah’s movements until he was a few feet above the other dragon. With a desperate leap, Freya launched herself into the air, landing just behind Kilgharrah’s head. She stroked his nose with one hand, whispering in his ear. 

“ _ Kari miss, epsipass imalla krat. _ ” she soothed.  _ “Katostar abore ceriss. Katicur. Me ta sentende divoless. Kar… krisass _ .”

Kilgharrah’s wheeling slowed, and he landed softly on the ground in front of the tomb. Leomaris and Gwaine joined them, making quick work of Kilgharrah’s bonds. The ancient dragon stretched high into the air, free of shackles for the first time in ten years. 

“Kilgharrah, we need your help,” Gwaine said urgently. “The druids are attacking our friends, and they’re sure to die without reinforcements.”

“For ten years Alvarr’s band forced me to bend to their will,” the dragon rumbled. “It would bring me a great deal of personal pleasure to aid you, sir knight.”

“Sire, look!” Leon pointed at the sky, where the two dragons had stopped battling. “Leomaris was victorious!”

A ragged cheer went up from the knights as the dragons swooped downwards, engulfing the cursed druids in fire. However, the cheers quickly died out as the man-dragon hybrids staggered back to their feet, clothing tattered and smoldering.

“Make a wall!” A young druid cried, gold glittering in his eyes. Mordred’s companions joined hands, a golden barrier forming in front of the knights, who formed a shield wall of their own around the now-vulnerable druids. With the magic protecting against projectile attacks, Alvarr’s men were forced to revert to close-quarters combat. They stepped ever closer, swords and magic weapons in hand.

“Steady!” shouted Tarald. “Stay together, men!” The knights shifted nervously, but remained in position. Pushing their shields together, they kept their swords high, ready to strike.

Ten paces. Five. The druids were close enough that Tarald could see the slitted pupils of their eyes, menacing and reptilian in the moonlight. Tarald could not fool himself; this was very likely his last stand. Raising his sword in the air, he shouted “For the love of Camelot!”

The knights echoed his cry, and charged through the magical barrier, steel ringing on scales with a clash.

 

~M~

 

Mordred’s eyes flickered to the altar, where the dragon egg still stood undisturbed. Immediately understanding his glance, Cerdan moved towards it, maintaining his own barrier while Merlin and Arthur carved a path towards the stone pedestal.

Extending his arm, Mordred threw the fragment of the key towards the trio. Arthur caught it and slammed it down on the altar, joining the triskelion into wholeness once more. Merlin drew the knife across his finger and let the drops bead up before smearing it across the egg. 

At the same instant, Mordred popped up from behind his barrier, drawing his crossbow out of the bag and firing it at Alvarr. True to Mordred’s threat, the bolt pierced Alvarr’s protective shield and scale alike, embedding itself in his chest.

It seemed like the whole world went still. Friend and foe alike held their breath as the realization of what Mordred had done spread through the antechamber. Alvarr staggered backwards, collapsing to the floor as his scales sloughed off.

“H-how?” He gasped, blood bubbling from his mouth and staining his beard.

“Dragon’s breath,” Mordred replied, and moved to stand over the prone druid. “Not that it matters to you now.”

With a last choking breath, Alvarr’s head lolled to the side, eyes already glazing over. Mordred stared down at the body for a moment longer, before striding towards the altar. It wasn’t long before he broke into a run, meeting Cerdan at the bottom of the steps. The two embraced, ten years of separation vanishing in an instant as they clung to each other.

“Oh, my boy,” Cerdan breathed, tears forming in his eyes. “I thought I’d never see you again.”

“I missed you, Father,” replied Mordred, and burrowed his face into Cerdan’s shoulder. “I missed you so much.”

Their reunion was interrupted by a loud  _ crack _ , then another. The four men turned towards the altar where the egg was shaking back and forth, shards breaking off its surface.

“It’s hatching,” Merlin breathed. 

 

~M~

 

With a shout, Tarald stabbed his sword forward, hair escaping its short ponytail with his exertion. However, instead of clanging off the scales, the sword pushed through his opponent and out the other side. Myror looked down in shock, before collapsing to the ground, dead. All around the knights, druids fell left and right, the injuries they had sustained during battle fatal now that the curse was broken.

Quiet reigned around the battlefield, the silence broken by a clatter as Ruadan raised his arms in surrender, dropping his sword to the ground. The few remaining druids mimicked his gesture, and were immediately surrounded by knights.

“I believe victory is ours,” Tarald observed.

“Huzzah!” cried Leon, raising his sword into the air. The other knights joined in the cheer, hoisting their swords with no small amount of relief. Gwaine landed Leomaris and hopped off his back, running to join his friends. The battle was over. They had won.

 

~M~

 

Arthur stared, fascinated, as a small egg tooth broke through the surface and the baby dragon began to emerge. It was a beautiful shade of cobalt blue, contrasting starkly with the golden yellow of its eyes. The dragon looked around curiously, crooning softly as it freed itself from its egg.

“You have to name it,” Cerdan said, breaking the awestruck silence. “The dragonlords named every dragon that hatched. Its name lives inside you, Merlin. All you have to do is free it.”

Merlin closed his eyes, and just as Cerdan had said, there it was, swirling inside his core, a small tendril of blue amongst his golden magic. He pulled on it, drawing it to the surface.  _ Of course _ , he thought.  _ How could it be anything else _ ?

“ _ Hudraer _ ,” he said, in a drawn-out, throaty voice. The dragon stared at Merlin, maintaining eye contact as it learned its own name.

Merlin turned to his companions, a brilliant smile on his face. “It means ‘hope’,” he said. 

Cerdan nodded. “A good name.”

_ Merlin _ , a voice echoed in the young warlock’s head.  _ Bring Hudraer outside _ . Instinctively, Merlin knew it was Kilgharrah, and scooping the young dragon in his arms, Merlin ran out the back entrance of the tomb. Kilgharrah was waiting, concealed amongst the shadows. Merlin set Hudraer on the ground before him, and the elder dragon lowered his nose to inspect the hatchling.

“Emrys, you understand that Hudraer cannot remain with you.” It was a statement, not a question. Merlin nodded sorrowfully. 

“It would have been good, though,” he said. “To raise a dragon, to keep the bond.”

Kilgharrah dipped his head in assent. “True, but as long as Uther Pendragon is king, he will be hunted. You cannot keep him safe forever.” 

Merlin hoisted the baby dragon onto Kilgharrah’s back, where it curled up between two spines. 

“I will take care of him,” the great dragon said. “He will be taught the ways of our kind, and those of the Dragonlords. Leomaris will stay with you, in order to protect and observe your growth. This is not our last meeting, Emrys. We will see you again.” With those cryptic words, he took off, releasing a plume of fire into the night sky.

“Damn,” Mordred said, watching the dragon fly away, “I’m going to miss the scaly old sod.” He stretched, clapping his father on the shoulder. 

“We’d best get going,” Cerdan said, his eyes on the nearby battleground. Mordred nodded in agreement. Reaching forward, Arthur put his hands on their arms.

“Thank you,” he said earnestly. “Thank you for your kindness and courage. Without you, Merlin and I would not be alive. However, I must warn you to stay away from Camelot. Although I will encourage my men not to harm you, I cannot say the same for my father.”

Cerdan looked at Arthur sympathetically. “You’re a good man, Arthur,” he said finally. “I hope one day, you can be a good king as well.” So saying, he turned and started into the forest, Mordred still lingering. 

“The men,” he said. “I promised them riches; they deserve to know they’re free for the taking.”

“We’ll let them know,” Arthur promised, squinting at the battlefield. “Not sure where they went, though.” Indeed, the only figures he could make out were those of the knights, who were rapidly approaching.

“Halt!” Tarald cried, unsheathing his sword. Mordred moved to run, but stopped.

“I suppose I can’t run forever,” the druid said wearily. He allowed his hands to be manacled, Leon placing a firm hand on his shoulder.

“No,” Arthur said, face carefully composed. “You can’t.”


	10. The Execution of Mordred Ceo

Arthur stood on the balcony of Camelot’s castle, Morgana, Tarald, and Uther by his side. It was another clear day, and the wind whipped at Arthur’s cloak teasingly. However, he could not enjoy the fine weather.

Far below in the center of the square stood a large wooden stake, kindling piled at its base. Tied to it was Mordred, silent as he stared at the cobblestones. A small crowd had gathered to watch, but other than the occasional murmur, they remained still.

“Mordred Céo,” the herald read. “You are accused of high treason, the use of sorcery, fleeing imprisonment, impersonation of a member of a royal family, robbery, and general lawlessness. For these crimes against the Crown, you are hereby sentenced to burn at the stake.”

“This is wrong,” Arthur whispered, shaking his head.

“I know he saved your life,” Tarald said, “But his crimes cannot be ignored. I’m sorry, Arthur.”

Suddenly, Arthur felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Merlin, face grave.

“Arthur,” he said quietly, so that the prince was the only one to notice. “I should have told you every day from the moment I met you,” he breathed out. “I love you.”

Arthur stared at Merlin in stunned silence, too shocked to reply. He’d always hoped, but hearing it now was like being struck by a thunderbolt. Turning on his heel, Merlin left the balcony, trotting rapidly down the stairs. Arthur rushed to the edge, looking over into the crowd. There, he could see Merlin’s black shock of hair bobbing amongst them, never once pausing to look back.

The drumroll went up as the executioner approached Mordred, a lit torch in his hand. It was then that Arthur saw a flash of green and white out of the corner of his eye, just like he had ten years ago. He cast a desperate glance at Morgana, silently pleading with her to forgive all their petty squabbles and help him just this once.

Morgana smiled knowingly at him, before pressing a hand to her forehead and sinking to the ground. Tarald and Uther were immediately at her side, their attention diverted. Down in the crowd, shrieks and screams went up as Merlin drew a sword, pushing his way through the throng.

“Move!” He cried, but he was a fraction too late. The executioner had already lit the kindling, and flames were starting to lick at Mordred’s boots. Swinging his sword frantically, Merlin chopped at the kindling, pushing it out of the way. Embers scattered across the cobblestones, sending the crowd jumping backwards. The executioner advanced on Merlin, pulling an axe from his belt, and Merlin was only able to parry him at the last instant. Mordred pulled against his bonds, but could not free himself.

Arthur looked at the chaos below, making a split-second decision. He drew his dagger and stabbed it into the banner hanging off the balcony, bracing it against his gauntlet. With a grunt, he threw himself off the side, hanging on to the thick fabric for support. The dagger slowed his descent as it cut through the cloth, but Arthur still hit the ground painfully hard, wincing as he rolled to disperse his momentum. Dagger still in hand, he rushed to Mordred’s aid, slashing at the bindings until the druid was free.

Meanwhile, Merlin bashed the executioner across the head with the pommel of his sword, sending the hooded man to the ground. Together with Arthur, he pulled Mordred from the growing fire, slinging his arms over their shoulders.

The three men ran towards the main gate, only for it to be blocked by a regiment of knights. With Mordred too weak to use his magic and Merlin’s still concealed, they would be unable to fight their way through. Instead, Merlin pulled Mordred up the rampart steps, Arthur bringing up the rear with his dagger brandished. The knights paused, hesitant to fight their prince, and Merlin and Mordred took advantage of every second they had.

When they reached the top of the ramparts, Mordred was wheezing from the smoke in his lungs and Merlin looked pale beneath a coating of soot. However, their faces were determined as they sprinted for the parapet, Arthur close behind them.

Suddenly, another group of knights blocked the way, Tarald and Uther at their head. Merlin froze, Mordred stepping away from him.

“I thought an escape attempt might be on your mind,” Tarald said, sword leveled at the two warlocks.

Uther sneered at Merlin. “I grant you clemency for rescuing my son, and this is how you repay me? By helping a _druid_?”

“He’s a good man,” Merlin protested, as Mordred grinned smugly at Uther.

“You forget your place, Merlin,” warned Tarald.

“It’s here.” Merlin took a step to his left, Tarald’s sword pointed at his chest as the manservant placed himself between the two men. “Between you, and Mordred.”

“As is mine,” Arthur declared, moving to Merlin’s side. He slipped his hand between them, clasping his fingers through Merlin’s and squeezing reassuringly.

“Lower your weapons!” Uther cried, raising a hand. “Lower them now!” The knights obeyed, looking amongst each other with confusion and relief. Mordred clapped his hands together, a grin on his face.

“Well,” he said brightly, clearing his throat, “I believe this is my cue to leave.” He wove his way among the knights until he reached Tarald. Looking him up and down, Mordred smiled.

“You know,” the druid said, “You’re not as much of a pompous git as I thought you were.” Tarald gaped at him in response, and Mordred turned back to Arthur and Merlin.

“Same for you, Prince Arthur,” he added. “Take care of him, will you Merlin?” Merlin grinned back at Mordred, nodding. The druid strode to the very edge of the ramparts, arms spread.

“Oh, and Uther?” The king glared at Mordred, scandalized. “You know exactly where you can shove your sword, and it bloody well isn’t your scabbard.” So saying, he allowed himself to fall backwards, toppling off the high castle wall. Arthur, Merlin, and Tarald rushed to the edge, only to be blown backwards as Kilgharrah soared towards the sky, Mordred in his claws. The three men stared at the sky as the dragon rapidly disappeared, Mordred’s whoop of triumph fading into the distance. His face white with anger, Uther stalked off the battlements to return to his throne.

“Sire?” Leon asked anxiously. “What should we do?” Tarald turned to face the knight, a smile twitching at his lips.

“Oh, I think we can afford to give him a day’s head start, don’t you?”

Leon nodded, heading down the rampart steps to help control the crowd. Tarald moved to follow, but paused on the edge of the step.

“Merlin,” he said. “I’ve seen the care you put into your duties.” Merlin nodded in agreement, composing himself. “I would expect such a man to put care into _all_ aspects of his life.” So saying, the elder prince headed out after Leon, the sun catching his quiet smile as he did. Arthur and Merlin were left alone on the ramparts, looking out at the kingdom.

“So,” Arthur grinned, the adrenaline of the fight still surging in his veins. “What now?”

Merlin looked back at him, beaming out from underneath the soot and sweat. “Whatever you want, sire.”

“For God’s sake, Merlin, it’s Arthur.” With those words, Arthur slipped his hand around the back of Merlin’s head, drawing them close. There was a moment’s hesitation, but Merlin pressed their lips together, eyes closing.

Merlin tasted of soot and smoke, but Arthur didn’t mind. He savored the touch of Merlin’s lips against his own, the faint smell of earth and soap that Merlin always smelled of. When they broke apart, both master and servant were grinning from ear to ear.

“Do you think he’ll be alright?” Merlin asked. “Mordred, I mean.”

Arthur scoffed. “Of course,” he replied, looking out at the forest. “I’m sure he’s already planning his next scheme.” Merlin stared out across the sky as well, hope glistening in his eyes. Arthur entwined their fingers as they stood together, feeling calm despite the whirlwind that had uprooted his life in the past few weeks.

As far as he was concerned, they could stand like this forever.

~M~

Kilgharrah placed Mordred on the ground, the druid running a few paces to stop himself from tripping. They were well outside Camelot’s borders, tucked away in the deep forest. He was met to a series of cheers from his companions, and a soft croon from Aithusa. Mordred let out a delighted shout of his own, stroking the white dragon’s flank. Despite being marred with burned spots, the skin on her wings was already starting to heal, no doubt aided by Gaius’s healing abilities. From his perch on Aithusa’s back, Hudraer playfully growled at Mordred, who tickled the baby dragon under his chin.

“I believe these are yours,” Freya said, holding out Mordred’s pack and cloak. He gratefully fastened the fabric around his neck, smiling as he did so. All around him, druids looked to him with pride and awe, moving out of the way as he made his way to the front of the group.

Running his fingers up and down Kilgharrah’s scales, Mordred mounted the dragon. He breathed deeply, closing his eyes for a moment before looking down at his followers.

“Well don’t just stand there,” he called. “We’ve got some hell to raise!”

The druids whooped and cheered, hopping onto their horses, and riding into the forest.

“Let’s go, Kilgharrah,” Mordred said, leaning over to touch the dragon’s neck.

“Where to, young Mordred?” asked the dragon.

Mordred’s eyes gleamed as they reflected the last rays of sunlight peeking over the treeline. “The horizon.”

THE END


End file.
